


The Last Years of the Fourth Era: Second Seed

by KimChangRa



Series: The Last Years of the Fourth Era [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 14:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 262,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimChangRa/pseuds/KimChangRa
Summary: What do a paranoid Altmer, a sadistic Dunmer, and a bloodthirsty Breton have in common? In the year 205 of the Fourth Era, three novices of the College of Winterhold will embark on a quest that not only puts Tamriel in the balance—but sets their own destinies in motion as well.(Completed December 2014)





	1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

_Four years ago, in the year 201 of the Fourth Era, the dragons returned to Tamriel._

_Immortal children of Akatosh, the God of Time and greatest of the Divines, the dragons feared little and were feared by all, carving a swath of devastation with fire and frost, tooth and claw to prepare the way for the greatest of their number: Alduin—destroyer, devourer, master—the ancient Nordic god of destruction, the "World-Eater," and herald of the end of Nirn._

_But just as it was written that the dragons would return, so too would another Nordic legend: the last of his kind, neither mortal nor dragon, but a warrior without equal who hunted both. The dragons had a name for this fearsome warrior: Dovahkiin. But the rest of the world—both in prophesy and in deed—had its own name: the Last Dragonborn._

_The Dragonborn rose up against Alduin, traveling across the province of Skyrim, learning the ways of the ancient magic called the Voice, which could split the earth as easily as it could clear or cloud the sky. And it was with the Voice that the Dragonborn journeyed to Sovngarde—the afterlife of the Nords—and slew Alduin the World-Eater._

_The prophecy now fulfilled, the Dragonborn disappeared into the sea of rumor once more. But the changes this warrior left behind were far-reaching, and indeed, much has happened in the four years since Alduin was slain._

_The Civil War of Skyrim ended with the victory of the rebel leader Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of the city of Windhelm, over the Imperial Legion. But his victory was short-lived: one of his generals, Varulf Blackmane of the Companions, had his own designs for becoming High King of Skyrim. He betrayed Ulfric at the Jarl's own Moot, challenging him in front of the other Jarls of Skyrim according to ancient Nordic customs. Ulfric accepted, and fought well. But the challenge cost him his life, and the Jarls recognized Varulf in unison as the true High King._

_The shadowy and sinister Dark Brotherhood has become stronger than ever, and is even rumored to be behind the sudden passing of Titus Mede II, the Emperor of Tamriel. The Thieves Guild of Riften, covert and dastardly, has been enjoying a similar resurgence as well. But both are at odds with one another; Maven Black-Briar, a powerful woman with connections to both factions, has been assassinated, and each is convinced the other is responsible._

_Yet even in the middle of all this conflict, there are those who will still take their own sides, or keep to themselves in order to survive. The Greybeards, masters of the Voice, continue to live in seclusion within their fortress of High Hrothgar, on the highest mountain in Tamriel—the Throat of the World. The Blades, sworn protectors of the Dragonborn in eras long past, continue to rebuild after being driven to near extinction by the supremacist Second Aldmeri Dominion._

_And finally, the College of Winterhold—once the greatest institution for learning the ways of magic in Skyrim, now a crumbling shadow of its former glory—struggles to regain the trust of the Nords. After thwarting an attempt by the Dominion to steal a powerful artifact, they appear to have made steps in that regard, but just how far they have left to go remains to be seen …_

* * *

_"It certainly isn't a coincidence that a master of the School of Illusion cast this attack on the School of Destruction. Illusion is, after all, all about masking the truth."_

\- Battlemage Malviser, _Response to Bero's Speech_

* * *

The stone halls of the citadel reached dozens of feet high, disappearing into darkness so black that not even the combined illumination of Masser and Secunda could penetrate it. And even if it could, those twin moons were separated by more than just shadows; a layer of rock, immeasurably thick, and as old as the ancient city carved into it, made sure that not one inch of the place never saw the light of day or night.

Not that he needed it, anyway.

The figure strode across the floor—his steps slow but filled with purpose. A blinding white point of light hovered just behind his right shoulder, throwing his hooded face into complete shadow. He paused every now and then, admiring the wonders of this city—a finger caressing the dusty floor, as smooth today as it was four thousand years ago; a brief sniff through his nostrils, smelling the cloying air of a chamber that had not been occupied in centuries; a longing gaze at the glint of brass-like metal that adorned the walls and ceilings of the chamber, metal that would never rust, nor would ever be recreated by the efforts of man or elf again.

And the sound—a deep, melodious thrumming noise that echoed throughout the halls and resonated within his body, vibrating his bones and sending shivers up his spine, and carving downward into his very soul. Even over the clattering, chaotic accompaniment—the turning of great golden gears, the hiss of massive boilers and pistons, and the chugging of engines concealed deep within the mass of rock—the sound still persisted, the only element of order in the chaos this ruin had become.

For it was more than a simple sound, he knew: it was a song; a dirge that their creators had been singing for the last three eras, and would sing until the end of the world. It was the last song they would ever sing.

It was also a reminder; for two human lifetimes, this song had guided him, persuaded him that they were still out there. It had guided his research, and it in turn had guided him here.

His eyes caught on something up ahead: a small pedestal of rock, too small to be a bed, but too large to be a single chair. It was lined in the same golden trim as the walls surrounding it, and the metal was covered in characteristically angular lines and curves, patterns both simple and complex. Within this pedestal sat a recess, long enough to hold an ordinary dagger, but substantially thicker. He traced a finger within this recess, feeling for lumps and ridges.

He found them—in exactly the places he'd been looking for, no less.

Beneath his hood, he grinned. _No doubt about it_.

He reached into the pockets of his robe, and produced a quill with a sealed well of ink. There were plenty of sheaves of parchment in this chamber that he might be able to put to use. The passing of nearly four thousand years had left them weathered and worn, though not to the extent of total decay—so well had they been preserved. But this message was too important to leave to the risks of bargaining with a force as fickle as time. Fortunately, he knew just the spell to remedy that.

A flash of green issued from his hand as it clutched a sheet of parchment, and the thin substance was immediately encased in a rippling glow, like sunlight on a riverbed. He had a brief moment of pride, thinking he would rather like to see the spell or sword capable of unsealing, never mind destroying outright, the message he was presently composing:

> _To the Arch-Mage of Winterhold,_
> 
> _It has come to my attention that your College acquired a magical artifact of great power some years ago. It has also come to my attention that said acquisition came on the cusp of a change in your staff structure. While I express my greatest condolences regarding your predecessor, Savos Aren, and Master Wizard Mirabelle Ervine, I fear I cannot offer you much time to adjust to those changes._
> 
> _Two months ago, I funded an excavation of the Jerall Mountains to the south of Riften, where the Dwarven city of Rkund once stood. Our efforts have recently uncovered something within that may be of interest to you and your College—and indeed, every magical institution in Tamriel were they to hear word._
> 
> _But I have heard much of the exploits of your College, and am of the belief that you should have first rights to see this discovery for yourself. I do not trust the other citizens of Skyrim, unfortunately, and so I cannot disclose any other details to you, lest this message find its way into the wrong hands. I ask you, therefore, to please come to Rkund and assist me in my efforts._

With a final flourish, he pocketed his quill and ink, and sealed the glowing letter in a tightly furled scroll. Then, holding the scroll in his still-glowing hand, he twitched his fingers briefly, and the bright green color turned into an ominous-looking purple.

He hurled the scroll at the floor. Before it could complete its trajectory, however, the purple glow exploded in a flash of dark light, sizzling into a portal of Oblivion. Then, it vanished, and in its place was a majestic-looking wolf, its spectral fur glowing purplish-blue. The scroll was just barely visible within its mouth.

"Go to the College of Winterhold," the figure instructed softly, in a whisper that was barely audible over the grating machinery. "Seek out the Arch-Mage. Let no one stop you. Let no weapon pierce you."

Howling mournfully, the familiar turned on its paws, and sped down the stone halls towards its destination.

The figure sat down on the pedestal, lazily tracing his finger in the recess once more.

 _Soon_ , he told himself. _Soon …_


	2. I

I

_Winterhold_

"Cross the bridge at your own peril!"

Faralda's voice cut through the snowstorm battering Winterhold like the crack of a whip. The woman before her stepped back a few paces as if she had been stung.

Immediately, the Altmer sorceress wondered if maybe she had spoken a little too sharply. Tonight's storm made speaking at a more reasonable tone difficult, however, and as much as Faralda knew the College of Winterhold could use more students right now, it wouldn't do to take just anyone in—they needed the best.

However, she thought, how fortunate it was to see yet another prospective scholar on the College's doorstep—the third one in two days, if she recalled correctly. One had arrived this morning, and had cast an excellent firebolt spell at Faralda's insistence.

And so, she continued on with the speech she felt like she'd given thousands of times. "The way is dangerous, and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!"

She studied the woman before her. Her skin was grayish, almost blue from the wind and cold: a dark elf. The hood over her head allowed only a faint glimpse of the blood-red eyes of the Dunmer. Very red indeed, Faralda thought; like freshly picked apples in season.

"Who are you?" the Dunmer asked. She sounded raspy, a little out of breath, and the way she was nursing her right arm led Faralda to suspect this might not be due to the cold. Sure enough, as she looked to the entrance of the town, she saw one of the town guards hunched over several bodies. A flicker of irritation moved across her brow. _Damned bandits_.

"I am here to assist those seeking the wisdom of the College," she explained to the Dunmer, lowering her voice a little, but compensating with a slightly more no-nonsense tone. "And if, in the process, my presence helps to deter those who might seek to do harm, so be it."

The Dunmer said nothing. Confident now that this was indeed a hopeful student, and not just another foolhardy bandit, Faralda pressed on. "But the more important question is: why are you here?"

She waited a few seconds before the Dunmer responded. "I want to unravel the mysteries of Aetherius," said the elf.

Faralda nodded in appreciation, though she couldn't help but wryly smirk to herself. _If I had a septim for every time I heard that …_ "The immortal plane," she said, her voice considerably warmer now. "It is said to be the source of all magic. This is a noble goal indeed.

"It would seem the College has what you seek," Faralda continued. "The question now is what _you_ can offer the College. Not just anyone is allowed inside. Those wishing to enter must show some degree of skill with magic. A small test, if you will."

It was another few seconds before the Dunmer spoke. "All right. I'll take your test," she said. She sounded a little more confident now.

Faralda smiled; already she had the perfect test lined up for this one. Dark elves were naturals at fire magic; another firebolt would be too easy for this one. _Perhaps … yes_.

"Those invested in restoration magic find Healing Hands to be essential," she finally said. "Can you cast it on me? That would prove your skill."

The Dunmer considered this for a moment, and then wordlessly raised her good hand in the Altmer's direction. For a second, a bright light began to dance across the dark elf's gray fingers. One second later, that light was being fired in a gentle beam towards Faralda, its rays enveloping her, warming her freezing body as if she'd just stepped inside the Frozen Hearth Inn.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the Dunmer's hand had lowered, and the blizzard was blowing again. But the warmth still persisted, much to Faralda's relief. _Much better_.

She did her best to contain a sigh of contentment. "Well done, indeed," she said to the Dunmer. "I think you'll make a superb addition to the College."

The high elf reached out to shake her hand. "Welcome, apprentice."

She regretted the action right as the Dunmer returned the gesture—her hand was _cold_ , almost frostbitten, even! Had she been traveling through this cursed snowstorm in nothing but a simple robe and boots?

"I'll lead you across the bridge," she said, feeling her maternal instinct kick in. This woman needed to get inside, and fast. "Once you're inside, speak with Tolfdir in the Hall of the Elements. The large door, right down the middle of the courtyard. Tolfdir's our Master Wizard; he'll get a bed set up for you in no t—"

She broke off suddenly, her eyes fixated on something in the distance, bounding over the freezing bodies on the outskirts of Winterhold. Within moments, it had arrived at the entrance to the College, barely feet away from her. She knew immediately what it was now that it was this close.

Conjuring a familiar was not a spell Faralda tested on potential students; even a novice could do that. But somehow, she suspected that this spellwork was much more intricate than a simple conjuration. This familiar looked much more lifelike, and Faralda would have it for the genuine article if it didn't look so … well, ghostly. But what really drew her attention wasn't the familiar itself.

_What in Oblivion?_

As Faralda looked on in confusion, the wolf was dispelled with a yelp of pain and a burst of purple magic. The thing it had been holding in its mouth dropped to the snow, and Faralda was only just able to catch it by the tips of her fingers before the wind blew it away.

It was some kind of scroll, she noticed. The whole thing was shimmering a metallic green color, similar to an armor spell. Stoneflesh, she deduced, as she poked a finger experimentally at the scroll—the layer of magicka protecting it from the elements was of roughly the same density as that particular spell.

_A trained familiar, and a magically sealed scroll …_

Faralda frowned. This was apprentice-level magic, surely. But the inventive way it had been used indicated someone with quite a bit more skill than that.

She looked behind her shoulder; the Dunmer had apparently tired of being delayed, and was now passing over the narrow bridge—the only link between the College and the outside world—spanning the chasm that had opened below in the wake of the Great Collapse, and taken much of the old Winterhold with it.

Her mind made up, Faralda hurried in her wake, coming narrowly close to bowling the Dunmer over the edge in her haste as she made for the Hall of the Elements, only sparing enough time to gasp out a brief apology.

Whatever this scroll was, it was obviously important.

And somehow, Faralda knew it could only be for one person.

* * *

Eventually, the Dunmer finally arrived within the College's main hall, and no sooner had the great door banged shut than she had started shaking all the snow out from her clothes. The precipitation collected in puddles on the floor.

If she was honest, it wasn't much warmer in here than it was out there. There were few torches, if any; instead, magical spheres of white light were suspended a few inches above their sconces. A mass of blue energy swirled from a well in the room beyond: an impressive stone chamber, completely round, and blocked off by a metal gate almost as large as the door she'd just passed through.

As she pushed this open, too, she saw she was not alone; there were four figures in the chamber, three of whom were clustered together. Of this group, two had their backs turned to her; she judged them to be students, from the tan robes and hoods they wore. A third, however, was in plain sight—an old Nord in a grayish-purple robe, with a satchel slung over one shoulder. This must be the lecture hall, she surmised.

 _Which means that old man must be Tolfdir_. She decided to stay back near the steps for a bit, as he appeared to be in the middle of a lesson. Maybe it would give her clothes a little more time to dry off.

But Tolfdir chose that moment to look up and notice the new arrival. "Ah, welcome, welcome!" he said genially. He had a demeanor about him that felt highly infectious, and warmer than any hearth an inn could hope to have. The Dunmer couldn't help but smile back despite her surprise.

"We were just about to begin," Toldfir said, inviting her over. "Please, stay and listen."

The dark elf shrugged. _Might as well._ Slowly, she rose up from the steps and strode to the rest of the group.

"So, as I was saying," Tolfdir said as he returned to his lecture, "the first thing you must understand is that magic is, by its very nature, volatile and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can and will destroy you."

"I tried to cast a firebolt when I was little," related the student to the right of the Dunmer, a rather short, fiery-haired girl. Her round, pale face and beady little eyes, made more so by the dark orange tattoos that seemed to spill from her eyes and mouth, told the elf that this was a Breton—one of the half-elves native to High Rock, west of Skyrim. "It worked a little too well—scarred my hand pretty badly."

She held up her left hand, and the Dunmer could see a nasty, reddish-brown splotch running from palm to wrist. She caught a faint whiff of something acrid as well—like burnt juniper—and fought the urge to sneeze.

"My point exactly, Miss Ionsaithe," said Tolfdir. "You all possess inherent magical abilities, to be sure. But what I'm talking about is true control—mastery of magic. It takes years, if not decades, to practice and study it."

The Dunmer couldn't resist a little snort. She knew a thing or two about mastery of magic, if earlier today was any indication. Her right arm gave a twinge where it had been wounded, and instinctively she clutched it tightly.

Tolfdir paused at the interruption, looking at the Dunmer with a concerned expression. "Is something the matter, my dear?"

The dark elf looked up. "Nothing's the matter," she said a little too forcefully. "Just … I just got a bit of a scrape on the way over. That's all."

Tolfdir inspected it, humming to himself. "Oh, dear," he said gently. "Just hold still, and—"

His hand briefly lit up, and touched the wound on her arm. Before she could even think to cry out, the rather large cut had resealed itself, and much of the feeling had been restored to her hand.

"Ah. Much better, yes, Miss—?" Tolfdir stepped back, smiling warmly at her, until he apparently remembered that he had not yet asked for her name.

"Malys," she replied automatically. "Malys Aryon, House Hlaalu."

"Pleasure to meet you, my dear," Tolfdir said graciously, extending his hand. Malys waved it away, trying to be polite. She wasn't all the way warm yet, and Tolfdir's healing magic hadn't gotten rid of the aching feeling completely. Thankfully, the elderly wizard seemed to understand.

"So … why are we just standing around?" asked Malys, feeling a little bolder now. "Aren't we generally supposed to _learn_ something at a College?"

The other student glared at her; this one was unmistakably a high elf, Malys could see. Altmer were a full head taller than most other men or mer in Tamriel—and ten times as haughty, so said their enemies. But in spite of this elf's apparent dislike, Malys caught something else mixed in: a constant sense of paranoia, like the Altmer was going to blow up like a badly drawn rune every time she turned a corner. More apparent than that, however, was the way she smelled—it was a dry, cloying odor, like a very bad thunderstorm.

Tolfdir chuckled. "Quite right, quite right," he said. "But this is exactly what I'm talking about, Miss Aryon. I say this to every student who wishes to master the arcane arts: eagerness must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable."

Malys privately admitted that between the Breton and the Altmer, there certainly appeared to be enough of both for one person. "As cliché as it sounds, you never know until you try," she said, sparing herself a roll of the eyes at the suggestion. Her father had been full of those old sayings, she recalled fondly.

Tolfdir considered this. "Hmm. Well, I suppose you're right," he admitted. "I usually teach the more practical lessons later on, but something tells me you all can handle it. However, I still place a priority on safety, so on that note, we'll be starting off with wards today."

Malys knew what wards were. Generally, they were protective spells that could block just about everything possible. The most complex could take dozens of people to perform over a very long time, but could seal anything from a door to an entire tomb. The wards she assumed Tolfdir was talking about, however, were mainly used to block most magical attacks.

Tolfdir turned to the Altmer. "You've been quiet so far," he noted. "Would you mind helping me with the demonstration, Miss—?"

" … Vinye," the high elf said, after a rather long, awkward silence, and she slowly stepped forward.

"Are you at all familiar with ward spells, my dear?" Tolfdir asked kindly.

The elf reluctantly nodded. "A little," she said. Malys wasn't surprised; this Vinye seemed more likely to be the fire-and-flee type than any kind of battlemage. Not that this automatically labeled her as a coward; Malys was merely of the opinion that natural surroundings like rocks and trees often offered the best type of protection—a sentiment the elf seemed to share.

"That's all right," soothed Tolfdir. "That's one reason why I'm giving this lesson. Now, if you could just stand right over there"—he indicated the seal before them, a five-pointed star with an eye in the center—"then I'll cast a spell at you, and you'll block it with your ward."

Vinye obeyed, planting her feet firmly on the eye of the seal. She took a few deep breaths, altered her stance slightly, and spread out her palms before her. What looked like a translucent silver flame sprouted from her left hand; Vinye reached out with this flame towards Tolfdir …

* * *

_Meanwhile …_

Two floors above the Hall of the Elements, Faralda paced the stone floor with a manic energy, while a stocky man in ornately woven robes studied the scroll she had just given to him.

"'The city of Rkund,'" the man quoted from the letter. His thick Nordic brogue rolled over the unfamiliar name with some difficulty. "I wasn't aware the dwarves had built a city that close to Riften. I've heard there were ruins, yes, but nothing to suggest a full-scale settlement."

"You think the letter's a fake?" Faralda asked. "There wasn't any name, either—if I'm honest, I've got a very bad feeling about this."

The Arch-Mage of Winterhold shook his head. "It took me a full thirty seconds to break the seal on this scroll," he said. "Whoever sent this is definitely telling the truth, or else he wouldn't go to such lengths to keep his message a secret."

"Still," Faralda said, "Riften's a long way from here. Who's to say whoever sent this doesn't just want you out in the open?"

"Who, me?" the man laughed. " _Arch-Mage_ Grimnir Torn-Skull?"

Faralda didn't smile back. "Maybe I wasn't talking about the _Arch-Mage_."

Though she couldn't see Grimnir's face, the Altmer didn't have to imagine the shadow falling across it.

But it was there for only a second. "Why don't you speak with Tolfdir?" Grimnir offered. "He may be getting on in years, but I think he'd still jump at the chance for another field trip."

Faralda started. "You're not suggesting—!" She closed her mouth suddenly, and chewed her tongue. Then, a little more quietly, "With respect, Arch-Mage, how do you know this isn't going to turn out to be another Saarthal? Don't you remember what we found in there? Don't you remember what it led to?!"

"Of course I do." The Nord's voice was as cold as the blizzard outside. "And I have faith that nothing of the sort will happen again. Faith in the College, and faith in you."

There was a long pause.

Faralda sighed in resignation. "Then send J'zargo, too. He may be an _acting_ master instructor, and he may be a Khajiit, but he's still a damn good mage. If there really is a Dwemer city out there, Divines know that might be all the incentive he'll need to come along. And with all the practicing he does in the Hall downstairs, I think he'd appreciate a chance to get outdoors for a change, put his skills to use."

Grimnir considered this for a time. "J'zargo is an expert in destruction magic," he conceded. "I remember the first time he asked me if I'd mastered those spells. I knew then and there it was only a matter of time before he'd be doing them himself. Once a Khajiit sniffs an opportunity, he'll go as far as he can to get it."

He stood up from his chair. "The matter is settled, then—we'll explore this 'city of Rkund.' I'll stay behind and wait for your findings. Inform Tolfdir and J'zargo—tell them to be ready to leave at dawn."

Faralda nodded. "Of course, sir." That could have gone better, she admitted, but the Arch-Mage had proved to be fair, just, and above all confident in his tenure thus far. She had little choice but to see his decision through.

 _Nords and their adventures_ , she thought as she descended the staircase to the lecture hall.

* * *

"There we are," Tolfdir encouraged her, as the flame in Vinye's palm slowly blossomed into a clear, liquid shield. "Keep it up … "

And then suddenly he moved faster than any mage Malys had ever seen, his right hand a near-total blur. The Dunmer wondered if this was some underhanded trick, to goad his pupils into overreacting. And for a moment—just before blinding sparks of magical energy blasted forth from Tolfdir's outstretched fingers—Malys thought she might be right; the ward suddenly brightened as Vinye let out a startled gasp, and it came very close to destabilizing then and there.

But it was clear this was just a practice spell Tolfdir was using, nowhere near as destructive as what a mage could be capable of; the sparks were also expertly spread out—Tolfdir certainly hadn't earned the title of Master Wizard for nothing. Moreover, Malys noticed something rather odd; Vinye's right hand was coursing with lightning magic not unlike Tolfdir's, though it was much less noticeable and even less concentrated—almost invisible from a distance. What was even odder was that she was not firing it at the old mage, or anyone in particular—instead, it looked like she was actually feeding it into her ward somehow.

 _Is she strengthening it?_ Malys wondered. _Is that possible—combining restoration magic with destruction magic? Or is she just trying to show off?_

Whatever the reason, by the time Vinye was finished, Tolfdir was beaming. "Excellent, excellent work!" he exclaimed. "A wonderful start already, if I do say so myself. Now, then," he turned to Malys and the Breton, "which of you would like to go n—"

He broke off suddenly, looking at a point past Malys' shoulder. "Excuse me, please," he said, his voice a sudden hush, and strode off abruptly.

Malys turned around, and saw the Altmer she'd met at the entrance to the College striding into the chamber. She did not look happy.

Tolfdir met her halfway across, and the two master mages commenced a hushed conversation that Malys, try as she might, could not make out at all. The elf was gesturing everywhere, pointing her finger towards the ceiling quite a few times, and even towards Malys' general direction once or twice.

Eventually, they leaned away from each other, and both now walked towards the students.

"Well, good news and bad news, I'm afraid," Tolfdir said as he approached them. "The bad news is we'll have to leave this lesson right here for the time being. Don't worry, ladies, I trust you'll all practice your ward spells further before we meet again.

"The good news is we've just received word from the Arch-Mage that a fascinating excavation is taking place in the ruins of Rkund. Faralda here has informed me we've been invited to explore their work so far, and I think this will be an excellent learning opportunity for us all. We'll meet there in two days' time if any of you are interested. That's all for now, thank you."

With that, the three students dispersed. Malys made as if to say hello to Vinye, but the Altmer had already rushed out of the hall like a sabercat on skooma—not bothering to mutter so much as a good-bye.

"Why am I not surprised?" said the Breton in a reedy voice as she watched her go.

"Hmm?"

"Don't tell me you didn't see what she was doing?" Her round face was stony. "That elf was cheating, and she knows it. She just didn't want to own up."

"What makes you think Tolfdir didn't see anything?" Malys replied, somewhat defensively. "He was closer than any of us—I don't see how he wouldn't have noticed."

"This one thinks the elf would make a good Khajiit," said a low voice.

Malys jumped—she'd all but forgotten about the fourth figure thanks to the impromptu lesson. Now, however, she could see him in greater detail as he stepped from the shadows: a Khajiit—a catlike race from the deserts of Elsweyr, in the very south of Tamriel. He was covered head to toe in dark gray fur, and wore robes and a satchel much like Tolfdir's, though his clothing was a light green where Tolfdir's was more burgundy. Bizarrely, the Khajiit sported a sizable jet-black mustache in addition to his whiskers, and Malys could see the Breton doing her best to not burst out laughing at the ridiculous thing.

"J'zargo did not mean to scare," the Khajiit purred in an oily voice, tail swishing side to side. Malys rather doubted that—there was a reason the Khajiit were among the least-trusted races in Tamriel. To be fair, none of the beast-folk were treated any better in Skyrim than the elves were. The Nords were the worst offenders—she didn't like to talk about it, but there was a reason Malys never went to Windhelm anymore.

"Why do you think she'd make a good cat?" the Breton asked, finally managing to swallow her laughter.

"She reminds J'zargo of someone else when he walked in your boots," J'zargo smiled, a toothy grin that sent a tiny chill up Malys' spine. "A powerful magician who mastered the expert-level Destruction spells quicker than anyone else J'zargo knew."

Malys couldn't think of a more contrasting comparison. The Breton, meanwhile, kept on asking questions. "You knew expert-level spells when you were still a novice?" she scoffed. "I thought you Khajiit were supposed to be _good_ at lying."

J'zargo kept smiling that odd little smile. "It does not matter what this one could do when he was young," he said, twirling his mustache in what he must have imagined was the indicator of a wise man. "It only matters what this one can do _now_." He clapped his furry paws together. "So, what is it they call you?"

"Cosette," said the Breton, in a voice as sweet as nightshade. "Go ahead and call me 'Cozy'—the last person who did saw his own insides before I killed him. Most people I kill don't even get that much."

J'zargo raised an eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing. Malys, meanwhile, suddenly found herself wishing she wasn't standing so close to the Breton. Something in Cosette's beady eyes had changed, she could tell; where the tiny half-elf had been confident, if perhaps overly so, now it sounded like she was ready to make good on her threat.

Quickly as she could, Malys moved to defuse the tense situation. "Malys Aryon, House Hlaalu." She moved rather closely to J'zargo, grabbing him by the collar of his robe with just the slightest bit of forcefulness, and adopted a husky voice that would have made Helviane Desele proud, Azura rest her soul.

"But if you know what's good for you," she hissed in his ear, in a whisper loud enough for the Breton to hear—and very lightly stroking J'zargo's forearm with two fingers for good measure—"then you will call me _Mistress_ Malys."

She released her grip on his robe, and stepped back to enjoy the effect of her words. Cosette looked as though she'd been slapped in the face with a baby mudcrab. Her mouth was half-open, and her face was almost as red as her hair. J'zargo, meanwhile, was standing stock-still, his ears standing up on end. Then, to Malys' complete surprise, he threw back his head and laughed—long and hard.

"Ha ha _ha!_ " J'zargo cackled, wiping a tear from his face and slapping his knee. "By the Mane, you amuse this one! Perhaps J'zargo was wrong—you might have more Khajiit in you than the high elf, no?" He grinned, showing his teeth again. "It is good to be around mages who can keep up with J'zargo."

"Who says I want to stop there?" Malys challenged, a daring smile on her face.

"J'zargo!" Tolfdir was calling from across the hall. "J'zargo, my boy, might I have a word with you?"

The Khajiit waved a paw in reply. "J'zargo does not need to _say_ anything," J'zargo said slyly, turning back to Malys. "J'zargo only needs to _do_ , and he will win." And with that, he strode through the hall to Tolfdir. The old man put a friendly arm around the cat, and together they strode out the door and into the courtyard.

Malys watched him go, feeling a little foolish—though _only_ a little—about her actions. "Well," she finally said, turning around to Cosette, who was still furiously red in the face. "A Khajiit as a mage. That isn't exactly something you see every day."

"Forget the cat!" Cosette burst out. "What in Oblivion was _that_ all about?"

"For a Khajiit, being underhanded isn't just a stigma," Malys said. "Sometimes, it's a way of life. It's their way of competition, that's all; I was only—oh, how do those Nords say it—getting on his level?"

She turned back towards the door where J'zargo had left. It was getting close to nighttime, and she was beginning to feel a little tired. She suddenly realized that she'd entirely forgotten to ask Tolfdir where she would be staying, and made for the door to the outside.

"That's not what I meant!" said Cosette, hurrying after her. "Why were you getting all … you know?" She choked on the words, as if she wanted to say something else completely, but couldn't bring herself to.

"We Dunmer know a thing or two about stigmas ourselves," Malys said, opening the door to the courtyard. Mercifully, the snowstorm had died down substantially; now there were only a few errant flakes falling from the sky. "It's not uncommon for female dark elves to act that promiscuous when they're young—or have you never read about Queen Barenziah? If anyone knows something about a Khajiit's p—"

"Finish that sentence and I will skin you alive," Cosette said flatly.

"And that's another thing," Malys retorted. "Fine thing for you to say to someone you've never met, 'Oh, hello. I'm going to make sure you die a horrible death one day.' What were you thinking, saying something like that? Do you say that to everyone you meet?"

"You've never heard of the Ionsaithe clan?" Cosette was incredulous.

That caught Malys off guard. " … No?"

Cosette huffed. "What about the War of the Bend'r-mahk?"

" … Let's say I haven't."

As they passed through the College courtyard, Cosette proceeded to explain to her how, two hundred and fifty-odd years ago, the Bretons and Redguards of High Rock and Hammerfell had waged war with Skyrim, how the city of Dragonstar had been split in two for over thirty years while the war raged on, and how the whole war had been used by Jagar Tharn to create a Shadow of Conflict. Malys was grateful she did not explain _those_ to her—if she was as enthusiastic about them as she apparently was about war, they might be here well into the night.

" … My clan fought in Dragonstar for all those thirty years," she concluded, as they finally made their way to the Hall of Attainment, where their dormitories were located. "When it was inevitable the Nords would win, we decided to flee the town, and we went through to Skyrim."

"That … doesn't quite answer my question," Malys said, as they entered the dormitory. Like the lecture hall, the Hall of Attainment was a circular tower with a well of blue energy at its focus. Beds for students and scholars alike lined the outer wall, along with facilities for enchanting and alchemy.

Cosette sighed. "The Ionsaithes are a clan that values bloodshed above all else—well, they used to be, anyway. My parents and I are probably the last pure-blooded Ionsaithes alive right now." She laughed ruefully. "When death threats are more or less your family's way of saying 'hello,' it can be easy to take things the wrong way. That's probably why there aren't that many of us left."

 _Indeed_ , Malys thought, rolling her eyes. "So why come here, then?" she asked, deciding to ignore that particular mammoth in the room for right now and focus on being a little more cordial. "It sounds like you know enough ways to kill someone without having to study magic."

"In the old tongue, 'Ionsaithe' means 'invincible'," Cosette replied. "It's the one thing I want to be." Her voice suddenly grew uncharacteristically quiet. "It's also the one thing I _don't_ want to be," she murmured.

Malys frowned. "Sorry?"

"Never mind." There was a moment of silence as the two managed to find a pair of unoccupied beds on the top level of the hall.

"What about you?" Cosette asked, once the two mages had made themselves at home. "Why are you studying here?"

Malys brightened a little bit—Cosette's brief moment of melancholy (she would have to ponder that later on) seemed to have mellowed her out a little. "Illusion, mostly. But I want to work on my conjuration and destruction, too. I'm not terrible, but I'm not all that great, either."

"Illusion?" Cosette tilted her head.

"Of course. Didn't you ever want to turn invisible when you were young?"

Cosette's pallid face drained further still, and Malys instinctively knew she'd hit a sore spot. " … Forget I asked."

"It's all right." Though she recovered quickly, Cosette's voice suggested anything but. "It's just that illusion doesn't sound all that useful next to all the other schools of magic. I can _maybe_ understand Invisibility and Muffle, but all those others like Calm spells and Fury spells—they're gambles. I don't leave things up to chance—if it wants to kill me, fine," she said hotly. "I'll just kill it first."

Malys shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said. "You have your ways, I have mine." _Please, please,_ please _don't ask about_ my _ways_ , she thought pleadingly.

Thankfully, she was spared from that possible line of questioning when Vinye walked in. She had a book clutched in one hand—which, upon closer inspection from Malys, turned out to be _The History of Raven Rock_ —and a whole stack of them in the other. Malys briefly wondered if she was going to do the same thing as before and ignore both her and Cosette completely. But at the last second, she halted and turned to them, apparently just now seeing they were there.

"You should get some sleep," she said tersely. Her voice was still a little unsteady after Tolfdir's lecture. "We're leaving for the Rift first thing in the morning."

Now that she had a better look at her face, Malys decided the elf uncannily resembled her mother. From her bobbed blonde hair to the permanent frown that creased her face, Vinye looked like she would be more at home in the College as a professor or a librarian. All that gave her away as a student were her vivid green eyes, or more to the point, the downcast expression they wore. But behind that air of nervousness, Malys could see a desire to learn—not just of magical theory or technique, but also of _truth_. And if she was honest, it scared her a little.

Vinye laid some of her books on Malys' and Cosette's end tables. "Here," she said, pushing the books gingerly towards the novices as though they might bite her. "Something to read for the trip ahead. Just make sure they're in one piece when you're done—Urag doesn't like damaged goods."

Malys peered over her bed to look at them. All of them seemed to be about the Dwemer—the technologically advanced race of elves who had mysteriously disappeared long ago in the First Era—and there were a few titles she vaguely recognized: _Tamrielic Lore … Ruins of Kemel-Ze … Chronicles of Nchuleft …_

"Um … thanks?" she asked tentatively.

Before either of them could say anything more, the Altmer had turned away from them, and strode across the hall to her own bed. She promptly tucked herself in, and cracked open the book on Raven Rock that Malys had seen earlier.

"I'd rather she just ignored us," Cosette said very quietly after a while.

"What is it between you two?" Malys asked in a whisper. "Do you have some kind of history with her?"

"No, nothing like that," Cosette said defensively. "She only just got here a day before I did."

"So?"

"It was just before you got here," Cosette explained. "When I first arrived in the main hall this morning, the first thing I saw was complete panic. Half the students and staff were running around like headless chickens. It might have been funny if there wasn't a storm atronach chasing after them all."

Malys almost forgot to whisper. "A _storm_ atronach?" That was an expert-level conjuration spell, she recalled—something that was not at all lightly taught or learned. She looked at Vinye in disbelief. "Are you saying she—?"

"She did," Cosette nodded sagely. "Only something went wrong. She summoned it, but I heard she forgot to bind it in the process. It went wild—started attacking everyone within reach. I heard the Conjuration master—Phinis Gestor—needed to get the Arch-Mage's help to even _banish_ the damned thing."

Malys cringed. "What happened to Vinye?"

"They found her in the library on the next story about a half-hour later," Cosette said dispassionately. "She wasn't hurt, but she was scared out of her wits, from what I was told. As well she should be," she added, a bit sourly. "I don't know why, but she never got punished. No one else is even _mad_ at her, as far as I know—though I'm pretty sure that's the _real_ reason why Tolfdir gave us that speech on safety."

Malys looked at Vinye, her olive-skinned nose buried in a different book, now. _Did she finish that last one already?_ She squinted at the cover— _Rising Threat_ , it looked like, though she couldn't be sure from this distance.

"What does that have to do with her being a cheater?" she asked.

"She's a _novice_ , Malys," Cosette said insistently. "She shouldn't have been able to summon a storm atronach in the first place!" Her eyes narrowed. "She must have used a scroll behind her back. Probably got swindled by one of the caravans when she got it, too. It was a cheap imitation, or it was poorly written, and that's why the atronach went berserk."

Malys was skeptical. Granted, that wasn't the most unbelievable explanation she'd expected to hear. But right now, she had a suspicion that Cosette was merely feeling petty jealousy towards the Altmer. Bretons were adept in magic, true—perhaps more so than dark elves—but high elves were on a whole other level above both races.

"Maybe she was taught someplace else before she came here," Malys mused. "The College of Winterhold can't be the only one of its kind in Tamriel, right?"

Cosette shook her head. "It isn't. But high elves are very particular about where they learn their magic," she said. "The only places I can think of that she'd even _consider_ going to would be the Synod and the College of Whispers. And from what I've heard, there's a _lot_ more politics involved over there than actual magic. Even J'zargo would have had a hard time avoiding everyone trying to undercut him at every turn."

Malys didn't know much about either of those institutions—only that they were splinter cells of the Mages Guild in Cyrodiil, formed some two hundred years ago in the wake of the Oblivion Crisis. If Vinye did indeed go there at some point in time, though … She thought of J'zargo and his first words to Malys. _Perhaps Vinye really would make a good Khajiit_ , she mused. _She certainly has us puzzled enough_.

"The only other explanation is that she had a tutor," Cosette said. "If that's true, I'd like to meet whoever taught her to do that. Because I have no idea what in Oblivion she's doing in this snow pile."

She inspected one of the books Vinye had left for her, turned it around, and put it back on the table with a grunt that quickly turned into a monstrous yawn. "Oh, forget it," she said, half to herself. "I'm too tired to memorize anything anyway."

She turned to Malys. "Oh, before I forget," she said. "I don't say this to just anyone—and if I hear anyone else talk about it to me, I'm going to deny it to my death." She took a deep breath, like she was being forced to swallow frostbite venom. "It's good to know a friendly face around here."

Malys smiled and shrugged to herself. _I suppose that's about as much as I'll get_. "Same to you … _Cozy_."

Later on, she would admit that it was worth it to see Cosette whirl around at her as fast as she did—and doubly so to see the hard lines of anger on her doughy face slowly melt into the more subtle curves of an appreciative smile.

"They don't make people like you every era, _Mistress_ Malys," she replied, emphasizing the word "Mistress" with mock servility. "You'll part of a rare breed."

Her smile widened. "Let's hope it doesn't go extinct."

Malys kept on smiling in spite of the veiled threat. "Good night, Cosette," she said to the first real, if rather unexpected, friend she'd made since she'd arrived in Skyrim.

Cosette grunted, and shifted into her covers a little more. She was snoring loudly within minutes.

Malys, on the other hand, had had trouble getting to sleep for as long as she could remember, and it was several hours—or, by her reckoning, a half-dozen more books read cover-to-cover by Vinye—before she finally fell asleep. Her last thought before she finally fell asleep was that she should've had a pint to drink at the Frozen Hearth, as she was feeling rather thirsty.

* * *

_Jarl's Longhouse, Winterhold_

"Thorvald? Thorvald!"

The former Stormcloak-turned-commander of the town guard was unpleasantly roused from his sleep by the shout. "Talos' sake, what is it, Gretta?"

"It's about the bodies Yngmar found on the road earlier," said the fair-haired woman at the foot of his cot. "There's something you need to see."

Cursing Dibella and her priests for teasing his dreams so, the dark-haired Nord put on his armor and mail as quickly as he could, then crossed the length of the longhouse to the Jarl's war room.

Of the three occupants currently occupying the chamber, only one was among the living—another Nord like Gretta and Thorvald, but darker-skinned and completely bald. The other two were a pale bluish-gray from a combination of cold and death, and were mostly covered in dirty linen sheets.

"This had better be good, Yngmar," Thorvald said irritably.

"If only it was," Yngmar remarked. He sounded very unnerved, and was talking in a very animated manner, throwing his arms every which way. "We just finished thawing them out a few minutes ago. There's hardly any blood from their wounds, and at first I thought the snow might've soaked it all up. But then I got a closer look at their faces."

He pulled back a sheet, exposing one of the bodies. "See for yourself."

Thorvald did.

" … Kynareth save us," he said ten seconds later, when he'd managed to get his breath back. He replaced the sheet with a whitened, trembling hand.

"What now?" Yngmar asked. Gretta looked fearful.

"We need to get word to Jarl Korir right now," Thorvald said. "Is he still in Whiterun?"

Gretta nodded. "Aye. Assur's with him, too. Wasn't enough for the boy to be Jarl after his father; now he wants to join the Companions."

Thorvald tore off a piece of linen, and started scribbling on it with a piece of charcoal for a few seconds. When he was done, he thrust the scrap to Yngmar like it was on fire. "Send for a courier," he ordered. "Have him deliver this to Korir personally—Jarl's eyes only, understand?"

Yngmar saluted, and sprinted out of the longhouse.

"Gretta," Thorvald continued, "go to the Jarl's wife. Put together a squad and escort Thaena to Whiterun. Actually—" The commander of the Winterhold guard stopped to think for a moment. Was it worth going to _them_ over a pair of cooling bodies?

… Yes, he decided. They could worry about cost and benefit afterward, but right now, he couldn't risk taking any chances. There might not be much of a Winterhold to protect, but dammit, there was still a Winterhold. And so long as Thorvald remained guard commander, he'd _make sure_ it was protected.

"Actually, Gretta, I need you to send for another courier before you do that. There's someone who specializes in exactly the sort of situation this could turn into if we're not careful. He's _ex-Legion_ "—he said this as though it caused him great physical pain—"but no one in Skyrim's better equipped for this than he is."

"Escort Thaena, send for a specialist." Gretta ticked off two fingers. "What should I tell them? It won't be easy to persuade Thaena to leave Winterhold, and this specialist sounds like some kind of mercenary to me."

Thorvald's face was grim as he reached for another scrap of linen to write on. "Tell them we have vampires."


	3. II

II

The Hall of Attainment was drafty, and the constant howling of the wind made it tough for anyone to have a decent night's sleep. But the beds were more than comfortable enough to make up for that, Malys thought; she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept as well as she did.

She wished it could have lasted longer. Unfortunately, J'zargo had decided to shake Malys awake so vigorously that even now—as she, Vinye and Cosette descended the ramp and into Winterhold proper—she was nursing a small crick in her neck. The Altmer and the Breton hadn't fared any better, by the looks of it; Vinye looked more alert than Malys had seen her last night, but she still noticeably winced every time she turned her head. Cosette, on the other hand, hadn't stopped muttering curses under her breath since they'd left the College, and was massaging her neck so forcefully that it looked like she was kneading dough.

"I hate cats," Malys heard her say more than once.

J'zargo, merrily unaware of Cosette's grumblings, had taken the lead ahead of the trio, and was strutting along with such gusto that he might have just been appointed thane of the entire hold. Tolfdir brought up the rear, humming "Ragnar the Red" to himself absentmindedly.

"Wait," Malys said suddenly, as they passed Birna's Oddments.

"Is something wrong, my dear?" Tolfdir asked.

"I need to stop inside for a few things, that's all." And with that, the Dunmer ducked inside the general store, and reemerged ten minutes later wearing a suit of elven armor that looked like it had seen better days. The dull _chink-chink_ of many potions clattering against one another sounded from her backpack with every step she took.

"You can't be too careful in Skyrim," she explained to the group, as she wrapped a traveling cloak over her armored body and backpack, pulling the oversized hood over her short black hair. "The other night, I got attacked by bandits not five feet away from where we're standing right now." She indicated a patch of snow with her thumb.

"Ah, so that's why you were hurt," Tolfdir said. Malys gave a sheepish smile back at him.

"It was dumb luck, was all," she shrugged. "They had a good bit of gold with them, too. That's how I was able to pay for most of this stuff." She patted her backpack.

"Still, you can't assume bandits will just roll over for you before they take your money," Vinye admonished her, her voice muffled by her own bulky cloak. It was the first time Malys had heard her speak today; the high elf had risen from her bunk without a word, proceeded to cram as many books as she could into the rucksack slung over her shoulder, and been the first to leave the grounds after Tolfdir and J'zargo. "If you aren't the one to make the first move, you won't live to make the second move."

"Speaking of moving," Cosette interjected, still a little irritable, "can we get a move on and head to this Dwarven ruin before I freeze my sword arm off?"

There was a general murmur of assent; though Malys couldn't help but glance at the Breton's choice for winter clothing. She had eschewed a traveling cloak, substituting it for fur-and-leather wraps around her arms and legs that looked crude, but definitely thick enough to protect them from the wintry weather. A small, magical fire was crackling merrily in Cosette's left hand as well, giving off heat that Malys could feel even from fifteen feet away.

"You heard the lady—on to adventure!" Tolfdir said as boisterously as only a Nord could, attracting a few scattered laughs from the rest of the group, J'zargo's loudest among them.

* * *

Adventure, Malys decided some time later, was highly overrated.

Last night's storm had forced most of the wildlife back into their dens, though they came across the occasional fox foraging for snowberries, racing across the road in a blur of white fur. Once or twice, however, they encountered a few wolves, though well-aimed firebolts from Tolfdir and J'zargo had sent them scrabbling through the snow with their tails between their legs. Other than this, there was nothing to suggest that their expedition to Rkund was going to start off as anything resembling "adventurous." Indeed, no one even said a word over the wind until after Winterhold had already disappeared behind the group; by then, the sun was high in the sky, and the clouds were beginning to clear.

The road veered to the right, now, running west towards the towers of an imposing-looking military fort. The snowdrifts to the south of the group, on the other hand, looked deep but passable. The eroded stone ruins of an old Nordic structure were visible in the distance. Much further beyond those was the faintest hint of a ship's furled sail.

"The old Nords certainly loved their stonework," J'zargo commented, indicating the ruins. "That is Snow Veil Sanctum. J'zargo has heard tales of the treasures within these tombs. But the locks on this tomb are strong, he has heard. No one can pick them, not even J'zargo. At least," he added, "no one who has come back alive."

Malys had heard about the burial crypts of the ancient Nords, and the Draugr who still walked the catacombs within, and silently thanked Azura for good craftsmanship. That was one thing she could respect the Nords for, at least.

Tolfdir pointed at the sail in the distance. "That looks like the docks for Windhelm," he noted.

J'zargo pondered this. "If we could cut through here, we could take much time off our journey," he said, stroking his mustache. "Plenty more Dwarven trinkets for J'zargo to find that way, yes?"

"I've no doubt about that," Tolfdir laughed.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Malys said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at her. "The shortcut would take us too close to Windhelm," the dark elf explained. "They don't like magic in there."

Tolfdir tsk-tsked. "Oh, come now, my dear," he chided, "I've made the trip to Windhelm quite a few times in my day, and I've never gotten so much as a cold shoulder from the city guards there."

Malys was in no mood to argue or to show due courtesy right now. "You're a Nord," she said tersely. "I'm a Dunmer. Maybe you should remember that the next time you go through the Gray Quarter."

Tolfdir's wrinkled face drooped a little as Malys' words sank in. "Oh … Oh, I'm terribly sorry, miss," he said, fumbling over his words in genuine sympathy. "I … should have realized … I didn't mean to offend you at all."

Malys sighed. "I understand," she said, deflating a little. "I just—I had a bad experience in Windhelm when I was younger." Seeing Tolfdir's curious look, she hastily added, "I'd … rather not talk about it right now, if that's okay."

Tolfdir immediately nodded. "Of course, my dear. Far be it from me to bring up an old ghost."

Malys' decision was not entirely by choice. It had felt so long ago, she thought, and so hard had Malys tried to forget the incident that much of the circumstances and details had been lost to her. But even if she lived to be a thousand years old, she would never forget the raw, ugly rage that she had had to face that night.

_… Go back under the ash where you belong! …_

_… Get away from my children, you gray-skin slut! …_

_… Gonna poison you in your sleep, stinking elf! …_

"Ghosts be damned," Cosette was saying as Malys pulled herself back to Mundus with some difficulty. "If we follow the road, it'll be nighttime before we reach Windhelm."

"And Skyrim is more dangerous at night than it is during the day," Vinye agreed.

"J'zargo?" Tolfdir turned to the Khajiit. "What do you think we should do?"

J'zargo peered once towards the fort in the west, frowning. Then, turning back, he scanned the snowy fields before them, holding a paw in front of his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun. He sniffed the air once, twice, and three times before he finally nodded.

"J'zargo sees nothing he cannot handle," he said confidently.

And on that note, he began to navigate a path through the snowdrifts with purpose in every step. Cosette and Vinye, then Tolfdir, and finally Malys followed him.

It seemed to take an impossibly long time to traverse it all, and the wind blowing in from the east was not helping matters at all. The descent only got more treacherous when the snowdrifts turned into large masses of icy rock. Everyone, even J'zargo, managed to slip on the rocks at least once; Vinye had even needed some restorative attention from Tolfdir on one occasion. Yet slowly but surely, Snow Veil Sanctum was growing larger before their eyes, and before long, the five mages felt smooth, carved stone beneath their boots.

Tolfdir called for a few minutes' rest. Before he'd finished talking, Cosette had plopped down with a grunt against a Nordic totem, next to a large metal grate over a wide pipe that stretched down into darkness. A wild rabbit had run across their way while they climbed the rocks, and a well-timed burst of magical flame from Cosette's hand had provided the first potential meal of the journey. After she had borrowed J'zargo's dagger to skin the rabbit, Cosette promptly began roasting it with her flames again, and she had already wrenched off one of its haunches to eat.

Suddenly, J'zargo leapt to his feet, slitted eyes bright and round as flawless diamonds. "Everyone, up!" he ordered.

So urgent was his tone that even the hungry Cosette obeyed him without a moment's hesitation—and not a moment too soon; an unpleasant smell had invaded the ruin, a mixture of decaying flesh and a military latrine that made Malys sick to her stomach. Their source wasn't far behind; three wide, misshapen forms, almost perfectly camouflaged against the snow, were lumbering towards them with primal ferocity in every step.

"Trolls!" Vinye shouted. Immediately, blue-white sparks danced around her hands, and she sent off one lightning bolt, then another. Both bolts hit the leftmost troll in the hip; it stumbled, but this only seemed to make the three-eyed hulk even madder. It roared in aggravation, beating cauldron-sized fists against its hairy chest.

 _Make the first move, indeed_ , Malys thought.

Cosette had seemed to forget that she was hungry, or that she was a mage; she was swinging away at a second troll with a bizarre-looking object that Malys could only guess was some kind of weapon. The troll, for its part, was matching her blow for blow, but Cosette was slowly winning; not only was she dodging and blocking any attacks from the troll's heavy claws, but a steady stream of fire from her other hand was burning it alive. A few seconds later, the monster collapsed at her feet with a final, grunting roar, and lay still.

_One down._

Meanwhile, the stench of the trolls was quickly being replaced with the acrid odor of Vinye's lightning magic as she continued to pelt her target with one bolt after another. Malys could see a pulsing blue aura around her body; high elves could naturally regenerate their magickal reserves so quickly, she knew, that the effect was actually visible to the trained eye, which further explained why Vinye was able to survive on the offensive for as long as she had. But the troll wasn't even being slowed by Vinye's relentless assault; now catching up to her, it lashed out with a massive backhand, and caught the Altmer right in her lung. A winded Vinye spun once on her feet from the force of the impact, and tumbled into the snow.

"Vinye!" Malys called out. Knowing it probably wouldn't do much good, Malys made a half-fist, built up some magic in her hand, and expelled a blue-white burst of ice as long and wide as her forearm. The troll, who was just about to finish off Vinye with a piledriver to the chest, caught the ice spike directly in the middle of its three eyes.

Almost immediately afterward, there was a flash of orange light directly in front of Malys, and a massive BOOM ripped through the air. There was a disgusting stench of burning hair and flesh. It didn't take long for Malys to figure out why: a charred, gaping hole had opened up in the troll's chest. The brute only just seemed to realize this when it tilted its ugly, bearded head down to see what had happened, and then it toppled over, dead as a doornail.

_Two down._

Malys turned to look behind and to her left, where the blast of fire had come from, and saw J'zargo with an outstretched, smoking paw and a cocky, lopsided grin on his furry face. "The trolls do not like fire," J'zargo explained to Malys, not bothering to disguise his glee. "But Khajiit _loves_ his incineration spells, yes he does."

Malys arched her eyebrows in grudging admiration. _Expert-level fire magic? I guess the little n'wah wasn't lying after all._

Tolfdir, in the meantime, had engaged the remaining troll in a spectacular battle between magic and muscle. The old man, who had surrounded himself in a cloak of whirling fire, was constantly ducking and weaving the troll's erratic swings, and in the interim, chipping away at him with the occasional firebolt.

It was truly mesmerizing to see, Malys admitted, to see a master wizard of Winterhold going toe-to-clawed-toe with such a creature. Though she'd known the man only briefly, she could already tell he practiced what he preached. Nothing was exaggerated in Tolfdir's movements, no magicka wasted in his attacks—this was "true control."

Malys saw Tolfdir step off to her right, and immediately saw an opening. She readied another ice spike, and then rushed forward. If she could make a closer shot, maybe she could get lucky and catch it in the eyes a second time.

She fired. Immediately, she could tell she wouldn't need her eyes to track the path of her attack—she already knew the ice spike's aim would be straight and true.

She also knew, however, that she'd fired only _one_ ice spike, and so Malys was momentarily confused when she saw no less than _four_ frozen missiles impale the troll in its head, chest and shoulders. The four attacks together achieved what one alone could not, and so great was their combined power that the troll was lifted off its feet, and propelled into a snowbank thirty feet behind it.

But Malys had no time to glory in her sudden stroke of luck. She had just noticed the sudden chill crawling up her spine—no, not just her spine; her arms, her _entire body_ was slowly getting colder and colder and _colder—_

And even before she turned around to see the thing behind her, she knew her luck was about to turn for the worse.

A long time ago, it might have been beautiful. From a distance, it certainly was—as graceful as the trolls had been crude. But Malys was just far enough away to appreciate that, yet close enough to see the dozens of serrated teeth in the ethereal humanoid's mouth. Naked save for tatters of thin clothing around its body, the strange creature regarded Malys with an inquisitive, almost childlike expression, floating mere inches above the snow.

Then it screamed—an inhuman shriek that instinctively made Malys clap her hands around her ears in pain—and charged for the elf.

Just as the thing raised its hand to perform another deadly spell, Malys was unceremoniously shoved aside by Cosette. Turning to rebuke the Breton, the diatribe died on Malys' lips when she saw that Cosette, too, was glowing—but rather than the pulsing blue from Vinye, hers was more of a shimmering bluish-white. It wasn't just from the ward she'd erected around her, either; a small cocoon of distortion surrounded her body, and somehow, Malys didn't think the ward had anything to do with it.

She had no idea what it was, but judging from how the ice attacks from the ghostly monster before Cosette seemed to flicker and dispel before her eyes, she suspected it was more than a ward, but some kind of absorption spell as well. That was very rare indeed, Malys thought—she'd never remembered seeing any spell or enchantment like that. Perhaps it was a special trait of the Ionsaithe clan, or—

"Don't just stand there—heal me!" Cosette barked at Malys, her right hand blasting away at the creature with firebolt after firebolt. "Heal me!" she said again, as a few tiny shards broke through her ward, ripping into her skin. "That attack's too strong for my ward, and I can't take the full brunt of it forever!"

Malys waited another few dangerous seconds to clear her head, and then fired the same restoration spell she'd used on Faralda at Cosette. The effect was immediate; the shards of ice that had made it through the double ward and were embedded inside Cosette's flesh melted away, and the wounds they left were resealed within seconds.

By now, J'zargo, Tolfdir, and Vinye (still a little dazed from the troll's attack) had joined in to lend a hand. With one final incineration spell from J'zargo, the entity opened its toothy maw in one last, silent cry, and finally exploded in a burst of fine ash and sickly green light.

After drinking some essence of elves ear and white cap to replenish her magicka, Malys turned back to the pile of ash with an incredulous look on her face. "What in Azura's name _was_ that thing?" she asked.

"A wispmother," J'zargo said, looking unusually rattled. "An ancient spirit of the frozen lands. J'zargo only saw one of them in his life until today—he had convinced his friends there was _only_ the one." He sighed. "But even a powerful mage like J'zargo still has much to learn, it seems."

"No kidding," said Cosette, wiping flecks of her blood off her sealed wounds and replacing the "sword" back under her robes. Now that Malys could see it better, she could see triangular points of sharpened ivory lashed with thick leather to a length of wood. It was the most ridiculous-looking sword she had ever seen—and yet, something about it told Malys that she did not want to be on the other end of such a brutal-looking weapon.

"What _is_ that?" she asked.

Cosette followed her eyes down to the weapon, and grimaced. "It's a Forsworn blade," she answered. "Nasty piece of work, isn't it? But it was nothing compared to the maniac who used it."

"Forsworn?"

"Group of tribal Bretons in the Reach. Some say they're terrorists, others say they're freedom fighters—and _I_ say the _less_ said about them, the _better_ ," Cosette said emphatically.

Her round face brightened a little. "By the way," she added, "thanks for covering me back there."

"Thanks," Malys said. "Is this the part where you tell me I owe you one?" she added only half-jokingly. Cosette, however, wore an expression that did not suggest any joking whatsoever.

"Don't start on that," the Breton sighed irritably. Clearly she had not heard this for the first time. "I'm not saying I don't appreciate what you did, Malys, but don't expect me to start relying on you lot for backup, either. I've spent more time away from people than I have _with_ —and if I'm honest, I work better that way."

 _Well, thanks for nothing_ , Malys thought.

Before she could object any further, Cosette had turned away from her. "We should keep moving," she remarked to the group. "Still a ways to go before we reach Windhelm."

J'zargo and Tolfdir looked at each other. "She has a point," the old man agreed. "The things a man can run into during the night … "

"This one agrees," the Khajiit said. He was still smiling, but the euphoria of the ambush was beginning to wear off—and it showed in the form of a tired yawn. "Although— _unnh_ —although J'zargo was right, yes?" J'zargo added, after failing to conceal his fatigue.

"What do you mean?" Vinye asked, frowning.

"J'zargo did not see anything he could not handle."

It took the three novices a moment for J'zargo's words to sink in. Malys would have been angry, but the fact that the five mages had just taken down a whole den's worth of trolls and a Tribunal-damned _wispmother_ almost balanced it out— _almost_. She therefore settled for burying her face in her hand and groaning at the antics of the Khajiit. Vinye looked rather annoyed—but Cosette was beside herself.

"You mean you knew about these things?!" she screeched at J'zargo. "Are you saying we could have avoided all this if we'd just taken the road around?!"

J'zargo shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "But if you had the chance to do so again, would you?"

Cosette opened her mouth, and stopped—evidently she was coming to the same conclusion Malys had. She raised a finger, then lowered it, and finally gave a frustrated sigh.

"I really, _really_ _hate_ cats," she snarled, and aimed a kick at the snow. "Let's just … let's just go before I decide I need a new fur coat."

On that sour note, the group continued their journey south. Malys clung further back to Tolfdir and J'zargo now; she did not want to be anywhere within reach of Cosette, spell or sword—somehow she doubted mere elven craftsmanship would stand up for long against either.

"I think you could have handled that better, my boy," she heard Tolfdir remark sorrowfully.

"Do not be so quick to accuse," J'zargo said. "This is merely the first step—the same step we took with Onmund and Brelyna when—"

"Mmm … yes. I remember Savos gave you four what for after what happened in Saarthal," Tolfdir said. "How you rushed in after me, deliberately disobeying me, just because you thought I might be in trouble." He chuckled nostalgically. "I never did properly thank you all for your concern, my lad."

"Nor do you need to," J'zargo smiled.

Malys frowned. Was this why J'zargo had elected to come along—simply because he'd been in their shoes before? She looked at the Khajiit, strutting about again like before—though this time, Malys felt he had a reason to. Khajiit weren't well known for excellence in magic, and yet J'zargo had progressed so far …

For some reason, Malys found that extremely uplifting on her spirits, so much so that everyone else, even Cosette, wondered why she was humming merrily all the way to Windhelm.

* * *

When they reached the docks at sunset, though, Malys' good mood had evaporated as quickly as it had come.

 _That's more guards than I remember_ , she thought, as she looked at what had to be a full dozen Stormcloaks in full armor patrolling the docks. The only others on the dock apart from ships' mates were a handful of Argonians; these reptilian folk were dockworkers, forced to live outside the city in a separate building—even the dark elves had more than that. It was a bitter dose of irony—the Argonian invasion of Morrowind had made Malys distrustful of their kind, though certainly not to the extent of those thrice-cursed Nords.

Instinctively, she pulled her hood lower over her face, and willed herself to shrink further into her armor. How long it had been since that day, she'd lost track. Nords weren't always the brightest candles in the hall, but Malys couldn't be too careful—with her luck, one of the guards would be smart enough to recognize her.

_The sooner we move on, the better._

Besides the city proper, there was only one other way through to the rest of Eastmarch hold—and that was the mouth of the White River. It was a short swim to the other bank, but with how bitter cold Windhelm was, there was no telling how chilly the water would be. Tolfdir was already passing around a bottle of frost mirriam and crushed snowberry he'd concocted earlier, which he had said would help protect against the cold water. Her portion of the potion tingled on her tongue, which Malys found inexplicably delightful, and she instantly felt warmer—and dare she say it, stronger—even as the last rays of the sun sank beneath the horizon.

Quickly, before the effects of the potion wore off, Malys jumped into the river. Instead of the water being deathly cold, the potion had warmed Malys enough to where she merely found it a little brisk. It was oddly refreshing after the skirmish of earlier today, and she had to fight the urge to linger behind everyone else and enjoy it.

Just as she felt the water beginning to get colder, the other side of the river came into view. A few seconds later, Malys had surfaced with a deep breath—

—that promptly choked in her throat when she saw the Stormcloak directly in front of her, hand rested on a highly polished steel sword. She barely managed to turn her cry of surprise into a hacking cough.

"That's why you don't go swimming in the White River, elf," said the guard disapprovingly. "'Specially not this time of day. Freeze the points of your ears off, you will."

Malys nodded, pulling her hood so far forward her entire face was almost concealed. "Sorry. I … I didn't feel like taking the long way around." _Please don't know who I am, please don't know who I am—_

The guard grunted. "There's a reason we have roads," he said brusquely to her and the other mages, who had hurried over to catch up with Malys. "Common sense—that's the only school that matters. We didn't have that, we'd all jump in the lake like you lot."

He turned around to resume his patrol. "You mages keep your noses clean while you're here, hear?"

"Hear, hear … damn Nords," Cosette said out of his earshot, not noticing Malys slump her shoulders and exhale in relief. "You'd think things would've changed after Ulfric got what he deserved."

"I … take it you supported the Empire?" Vinye asked hesitantly.

"I don't particularly like them, either," Cosette groused. "I just think everyone was a bunch of idiots for fighting such a pointless war."

"They fought for what they believed in," shrugged Vinye. "If I was a Legionnaire, that would be point enough for me. If you had a reason to fight in a war, would you?"

Silence.

"Cosette?"

The Breton didn't answer. Her pale face had turned unusually dark, but it was more brooding rather than threatening. At any rate, it made Malys uneasy, and she directed a glance toward Vinye, indicating that it might be best not to bother Cosette further about the subject. The Altmer furrowed her brow briefly, but nodded in reply.

They passed a few more Stormcloak patrols in silence before they reached the tiny settlement of Kynesgrove, but they were just far enough away that Malys did not need to worry about her being discovered. Still, the events of the day had taken their toll on her, and no sooner had she paid for a room at the Braidwood Inn and a pint of ale than she promptly collapsed on her bed. She had no recollection of falling asleep.

* * *

_Jarl's Longhouse, Winterhold_

A burly fist pounded on the door to the guard barracks. "Thorvald!"

The captain of the guard was more easily roused today than yesterday. "What is it, Yngmar?"

Yngmar pointed a thumb to the door outside. "Some priest here for you. Says he's here on account of our little problem from the other night."

"Then what in Stendarr's name is he doing outside?" Thorvald grunted. "Get him in here now—before we end up with another body to thaw!"

Not bothering to salute, Yngmar disappeared for a moment. When he came back a moment later, it was with a man in a simple yellow cassock. Beneath the hood, Thorvald could see a sizable grayish-white beard. The elder's left hand, surprisingly muscular in spite of its owner's age, rested on the hilt of a sword that—even through the thick cloth of his robes—glowed with a hundred candles' worth of light, which was a hundred candles more than enough to make Thorvald nervous.

"Lucius Anglinius," said the man. His voice was not at all the reedy wheeze Thorvald had been expecting; rather, it was loud and clear as his old war horn, and invited about as much debate. It also had an unmistakable Cyrodiilic accent, which made the Nord even more anxious—even though he had accepted that even someone ex-Legion was most likely an Imperial as well. "You have vampires, Captain."

It was not a question. "Aye," Thorvald answered tersely. "Right this way." He led the Imperial to the war room, where the bodies had been closely guarded since yesterday.

"Two of them, just showed up on the outskirts of town," he explained. "We can only guess why they were here—aside from creating more of their kind," he added in a growl. "They didn't get very far—both were dead by the time we found them in the snow."

He reached the bodies in question, and pulled back the linen wraps that covered their naked bodies.

The old man, meanwhile, had lowered his hood to reveal his balding head, and two snow-white eyes that took Thorvald aback. _He's blind as a Falmer_ , he mused. _How in the Nine did he find his way here? He can't have come on horseback—we don't have stables anymore!_ Just to be sure, he listened outside for whinnies and plodding hooves, but heard none.

Lucius was now hovering his left hand over one of the vampires. It was emitting a bright, warm light not unlike the one that seemed to come from his sword. Every few seconds or so, he would grunt to himself, nod, or otherwise make some sort of affirmation.

Then, finally, he stood back. "Just as I thought," he said. "Volkihar."

The word sent shivers through the guards present. Volkihar vampires were the most dangerous of their kind known to live in Skyrim. It was said they made their homes inside the frozen north, and could move through solid ice like it was water.

"How can you tell?" Thorvald asked, before he could stop himself.

Lucius chuckled darkly. "You think me a blind fool, Nord? I am not a fool, and neither am I blind. I merely do not require _your_ light to see the truth laid bare before me."

Thorvald was confused. Our _light?_

"Sanguinare Vampiris is endemic to the Volkihar clan, and by extension, endemic to Skyrim," Lucius explained. "Though Poryphilic Hemophilia is much more common, it is seen mainly in my homeland, and rarely in Morrowind since the Argonians invaded. Neither clan would have much reason to venture so far to the north of Tamriel."

Despite his prejudice, Thorvald was impressed. _He's certainly done his homework—and he's blind to boot. We could learn a thing or two from priests like him._

"But there are two things that disturb me," Lucius continued, stroking his beard. "One is that these vampires died in battle. They attempted to heal their wounds with their foul blood magic, but the scars yet remain." He stroked a gloved finger across the chest of the vampire before him. "Magically inflicted wounds, it seems—and judging from the extent of the scarring, I would surmise that these vampires were killed by ice magic."

Yngmar's ruddy face brightened. "Gretta!" he called to the woman outside the war room. "Didn't the College take in a new novice the night these vampires showed up?"

Gretta thought for a moment. "I … don't—wait, I think they might have! You're saying that novice was able to kill these two vampires?"

"Mm, that's the other thing that worries me—Volkihar vampires never travel alone, but most often they travel in groups of three." Lucius' voice was grim. "Which begs the question: why are there only _two_ bodies here?"

The war room seemed to get a little colder as the implications of his words sank in.

"I must go to the College," Lucius said abruptly to Thorvald. "You no longer need me here. Bolster your nightly patrols, Captain. No one enters or leaves Winterhold without your knowledge. If you think them a vampire, detain them and inform me posthaste. Make sure you are _absolutely thorough_ in your findings before you do so—better to detain one vampire than to detain a hundred innocent citizens."

Thorvald's head was spinning with all the orders. "You're asking me to do all that? Why?"

"Because Winterhold was not the first time."

There was a pregnant silence. "What?" Gretta asked.

"There's been two attacks on citizens in Solitude, and a third in Dawnstar," said Lucius. "All of them occurred over this past week. All of them occurred at night. And I can say with certainty that all the attacks were instigated by vampires." He paused to regard the effect of his words on the Nords. "The Volkihar have been growing bolder in their actions of late—and I aim to know to what end."

He unsheathed his glowing sword; Thorvald now saw that the light from under his robes was coming from an orb located where the grip met the blade. "I suggest you stand back," Lucius said shortly, turning the blade downward, angling it right at the heart of the vampire before him, and bringing it down with surprising strength.

There was an explosion of bright blue light, a rushing sound, and a rapidly expanding wall of deep blue fire that knocked Thorvald and the rest of the unprepared guards flat on their backs. When they managed to get back up a few seconds later, they saw that both bodies had been reduced to neat little piles of ash.

"What manner of blade is that?" exclaimed Yngmar. "Such power … "

"More to the point, what manner of _priest_ are _you_?" said Thorvald accusingly. "Arkay's followers are rarely so armed."

Lucius chuckled as he walked to the door leading out to Winterhold. "I venerate Arkay with all the respect that he and the rest of the _Eight_ Divines deserve," he said, emphasizing the number with blatant condescension. "But no, I do not worship him outright."

He opened the door. "I have pledged my life and service to Meridia," he said, zeal in his voice. "Through her and her token, the Dawnbreaker, I make sure that the dead and buried of Mundus _stay_ dead and buried _in_ Mundus."

With this declaration, Lucius departed the longhouse, leaving behind two very confused-looking Nords and a commander who, reluctant as he was to admit it to his compatriots, was now very, very uneasy.

 _So not only is he a Daedra worshipper_ , Thorvald thought, gritting his teeth, _he's a_ fanatic _Daedra worshipper. Wonderful—just what Skyrim needed._

"I'm not alone in this, am I?" Gretta wondered out loud. "In thinking that priest is going to spell trouble?"

"He's two pints short of a barrel of mead," Yngmar remarked, "but damned if he hasn't got the fire to match. If you're going to worry, Gretta, then worry at least about that vampire—assuming it's still out there, anyway."

Gretta laughed. "Heh—if that sword can turn a dead vampire to ash, then I'd like to see what it could do to an _undead_ vampire!"

Thorvald, for his part, remained stoic. "I wish I had your confidence," he said softly. "I really do."

* * *

_Eastmarch_

The following morning saw Tolfdir, J'zargo, and the three novices setting out from Kynesgrove. They elected to stay on the road this time, so as not to encounter any more unwelcome threats (J'zargo had accepted this with some displeasure, but ultimately agreed).

They had also taken their time before leaving the inn; Malys was not the only one who had had something to drink before turning in for the night. But of the five, she was certainly the worst off; her stomach had not taken well to the ale at all, and even now, she was still tremendously tired. Most of the cause for the delay—and for her fatigue—had been due to have to clean up the mess of ale and vomit she'd made. It turned out that the proprietor of the Braidwood Inn had seen this a few times in his day—but then again, as the barman had angrily reminded Malys, they'd all had the decency not to throw up onto their bedspreads.

"Give me some sujamma any day of the week," she yawned.

The weather in Eastmarch was far more pleasant than in Winterhold. There were only a few clouds in the sky, and the wind was soothing rather than biting. Cosette loved it; she was acting so exuberantly that if it wasn't for the events of last night, Malys might have suspected they'd switched bodies somehow. That someone who was willing to kill without hesitation could act so joyfully was, in her opinion, even more unsettling than her normal mood.

"It reminds me of home," she explained to the Dunmer when Malys asked. "I lived in Markarth for a few years. I remember I'd always want to visit the Dwarven ruins under the city. The guards would never let us in, though."

"Speaking of Dwarven ruins," Tolfdir spoke up, "have a look over there." He pointed eastward with his finger, towards the cliffs in the distance.

Malys could barely see it through the trees, but there it was; the unmistakable combination of weathered gray stone carved to perfect smoothness, and gilded bronze metal, expertly crafted and fitted into the sculpted rock.

"That is Mzulft," J'zargo said. "J'zargo was inside those ruins not long ago."

"Not by yourself, I hope," Vinye said. "Those guards kept you out of the ruins for a reason, Cosette. The Dwemer may be gone, but they left a lot more behind than those machines of theirs."

"Khajiit are never alone, even when they appear to be," smiled J'zargo. "There were four of us who entered the ruins then. Perhaps you would like to hear about J'zargo's friends? He was much like you once, you know."

"Oh, this I have to hear," Cosette remarked.

"There was Brelyna Maryon," J'zargo said, ticking his claws off one by one. "Ah, you know the name, then?" he said at Malys' expression of recognition. "She comes from the line of the Telvanni wizards. Very clever elves, they were—more clever even than this one.

"Then there was Onmund. The Nords may not like magic, and neither did his family. But neither does a Nord back down from a challenge. And we saw many challenges in our time.

"And finally"—J'zargo's grin grew wider—"there was the Dragonborn."

As if to provide a dramatic moment, a strange sound, like a great beast roaring far off in the distance, echoed through the air.

Cosette scoffed. "That's a tall tale, even for you," she said skeptically.

"And you're saying _you_ know something about the Dragonborn?" Malys retorted.

"I know enough about those old Nord legends," said Cosette. "That, and the _big scaly monsters_ coming back for no other reason at all was a pretty big hint. But the Dragonborn doesn't need a place like the College. That kind of power isn't something you can just learn from a book."

Vinye nodded sagely. Tolfdir and J'zargo exchanged glances, and the old Nord cleared his throat. "Actually, Miss Ionsaithe, ever since the Dragonborn came to Winterhold, we've been in talks with High Hrothgar, where it just so happens 'that kind of power' is studied."

"Onmund is there now," added J'zargo. "Ever since the Dragonborn's return, he had hopes of being able to study and speak the Voice, and perhaps match him one day. It was not easy for the Greybeards to accept his plea—and J'zargo still does not know how or why—but they did."

"So he's not a student at the College anymore?" Vinye asked.

"In a sense, he still is," Toldfir said. "Students at Winterhold are essentially free to come and go as they please. We're not as structured as most institutions of magic in Tamriel—the Arch-Mages, both past and present, have long believed in a hands-off approach to education. They like to let the mages learn for themselves, you see."

"What about Brelyna?" Malys wanted to know. "If she's part of House Telvanni, she must be in Morrowind, I'm guessing."

"Oh, not all the time," Tolfdir answered. "The last time we spoke was a few years ago. She hoped to study under the Telvanni masters—family tradition, I'd imagine. At least one of them lives in Solstheim—a wizard by the name of Neloth. Our illusion master, Drevis Neloren, went with her—J'zargo has been doing a masterful job in his stead."

The Khajiit gave a little bow.

"They've expressed hopes to recolonize the mainland of Morrowind after everything that's happened over there," Tolfdir continued. "They send letters every so often, and things seem to be going rather well so far."

"That's nice of them," Malys said. "And what about this Dragonborn, then? What does a hero of prophecy have left to do once his prophecy is fulfilled?"

J'zargo was about to answer, but then an arrow thwacked into his hip.

As the Khajiit yowled in pain, everyone else sprang into action. Malys whirled to the west, where the arrow had come from. Bandits—four of them, from a campsite near the cliff. Three of them were rushing towards them, swords drawn and yelling battle cries. A fourth held back, and were already nocking more arrows.

"Stay behind me!" called Tolfdir. J'zargo herded the other mages behind the Master Wizard as best he could.

Quick as a flash, Tolfdir fired a lightning bolt at the lead thug. The attack hit the robber's broadsword, disintegrating it into lethal shards that ripped into the luckless Redguard's body. The hilt flew out of his hand, catching Malys in the leg and causing her to stumble. A second lightning bolt, this one from Vinye, caught the wounded bandit right in the chest, killing him instantly.

Cosette grit her teeth as another arrow found its mark, this time in her shoulder. She responded by unleashing two firebolts in rapid succession towards the archer. The woman evaded one with ease, but this put her in the path of the other. Her unprotected face took the full brunt of the blast, and she toppled off the cliff.

Malys, meanwhile, was doing her best to duck and weave the battleaxe of the Nord in front of her. The outlaw's charge had been so unexpected that her ice magic had hit nothing but air, so wildly had she been flailing about. Now, with her magicka depleted and no time to drink any of her potions, Malys could feel her heartbeat beginning to accelerate, and her vision was rapidly beginning to blur.

"You grayskins don't belong here!" bellowed the Nord. "Skyrim belongs to—"

Exactly who Skyrim belonged to, the Nord didn't have time to say: Malys, in a sudden burst of strength, had lashed out with her fist, and connected _hard_ —right in the side of the Nord's exposed neck. The bandit toppled to the ground, unconscious.

The other mages looked stunned. Vinye was looking at Malys, head slightly tilted. Cosette and Tolfdir were wild-eyed. Even the remaining bandit had stopped attempting to land a hit on an equally distracted J'zargo—though the Khajiit, no stranger to distraction himself, quickly finished him off with a wave of his paw and an offhanded fireball.

As the dust settled, there was a very uncomfortable silence as the mages continued to look at Malys.

"What are _you_ looking at?" the Dunmer snarled. Her voice was entirely different from before, now: it was keen as a razor, and so cold that the air around her had changed; it felt like the mages were still in Winterhold.

"Get going!" she hissed angrily. "I'll catch up with you later." She turned to the bandit. "This one is _mine_."

The four mages didn't need telling twice. At a hushed whisper from Tolfdir, they continued their journey to Riften at a noticeably faster pace—desperate to avoid whoever, or whatever, had managed to have that effect on Malys.

* * *

Once they disappeared over the ridge, She went to work.

Her hands danced with a gentle light; Her left hand enveloped the prone form of the bandit She was standing over, the other was a flickering green that extended over the nord's face. The combination of magic had a slow but sure effect; the bandit was slowly regaining consciousness.

She knew She only had a few seconds to mentally prepare herself. It had felt so long since She had done this—years, certainly, but it felt like decades or even entire centuries. The conditions weren't exactly ideal, either, but She would have to play with the hand She was dealt.

The bandit's eyes fluttered open.

Now.

"You're awake," She said. Simple, but soft and seductive— _give him just a hint_.

The nord looked around. His movements were sluggish. "What … what happened?" he asked, as he saw the bodies around him.

"They tried to turn on you," She lied.

The nord tried to get up, but She was upon him in an instant, pushing him back down with the weight of her body, spreading his arms outward with Hers. "No, no," She said in a falsely soothing voice. "Shh, shh, don't try to move. You've been injured. You need to rest. Don't worry—I'll take _very_ good care of you."

The greenish glow of Her calm spell was beginning to fade.

"You … you did this! You killed them!" growled the nord as his senses finally came to him. he reached for his axe—only for a thin spike of ice to nail his palm to the road. his roar of anger turned rapidly to a bleat of agony.

 _Bad boy_.

"What did Mistress tell you to do?" She asked, preparing another ice spike. When the bandit failed to answer, save for more pained gasps, She released the magic, impaling the Nord's other palm, pinning him helplessly to the road.

"Answer Me!" She screamed, slapping him in the face for good measure. Some ice magic was still left over; it had collected on Her hand after firing the ice spike. It shredded the bandit's face, causing him to scream again.

A curious sensation snaked through Her body at this. It certainly _had_ been a long time, then, hadn't it?

"Don't move!" he said finally, muffled through the fresh blood running into his mouth. "You told me not to move!"

She smiled. "That's a _good boy_." Her hands glowed with the same magic as before, and passed over the bandit—healing his face, calming him once again. She knew the others would come back for Her eventually—but that did not mean She couldn't take Her time.

Her smile faded. "Will you tell Mistress your name?"

This time, She got a response much quicker. "gjavar," gasped the bandit.

"gjavar … what?" She asked. Her eyes flitted to the ice spike on Her left. She grinned wickedly, and shifted her position a little—enough to let the nord know exactly what She was about to do. She planted one of her armored boots on top of the spike, smiled warmly at him—

—and then drove her foot down _hard_ , shifting her heel as she did so, and slowly, cruelly _twisting_ the shard into gjavar's flesh. his screaming was as loud as any dragon.

"gjavar, what?" she repeated again.

"gjavar, Mistress!" he shouted.

"Thank you," She said. _Good boy_.

Another healing spell, another flash of green light. "Do you know who I am?"

gjavar frowned. " … Mistress?" he asked. his voice was as small and innocent as a child's.

She slapped him again, and She regretted She did not have any more ice left on Her hand this time. "you will not be smart with me," She said sharply. "It's too late for you to tell Me you've decided to grow a brain, s'wit."

She placed a boot on the other ice spike. "Now … who am I?" she asked once more.

gjavar thought for a few moments. "You're that elf," he finally recognized. "The mage with all the others."

She relaxed Her foot, but still kept it rooted to the ice shard. "And what did you say to 'that elf'?" She asked acidly.

"i … i called You a grayskin," he choked. Tears were beginning to stream down his cheeks, and She felt another twinge of euphoria ripple through Her at the sight.

"And?"

"And … and that Skyrim … belonged t— _AUUUUGH!_ "

She had brought down her other boot on the ice spike, much harder than the first time, and gjavar's tortured screams surely much have been heard all the way back to Windhelm; they were so loud that She had to resist the temptation to cover Her ears from the volume.

"And that's why you've been a _bad boy_ ," She sneered, as gjavar slowly began to hold back a sob from the pain. "Skyrim does not belong to selfish little garbage like you, or any of your kind."

"Maybe not," gjavar said defiantly, choking back his tears, "but i belong to her."

She didn't even bother with a simple slap this time; angrily, She charged up another ice spike—this one longer and thinner than the other two—and fired it right into the nord's throat. There was an obscene choking noise, and gjavar's eyes widened until they were in danger of leaving his skull, but he did not cry out in torment this time.

"you do not belong to Skyrim," She hissed through clenched teeth, "you belong to Mistress, for as long as I wish!"

She moved Her foot towards the shard in his throat, intending to nail it in further and _twist_ it just like before—

—and suddenly felt a strong hand clamp down on Her arm.

* * *

Malys gasped.

Tolfdir had arrived at the very last moment. The aged wizard was straining with all his might on Malys' arm with his right hand, while his left hand sent a stream of healing magic in Gjavar's direction. The bandit's scars sealed up after some time, and he slowly rose to his feet, gulping for air and coughing loudly.

"Go," Malys barely heard Tolfdir say to the bandit. He'd never sounded so stern.

Gjavar didn't need telling twice. "You mages are insane," he gasped out, backing away in a combination of hate and fear—though fear was clearly winning out. "You hear me? You're insane!" With that, he ran down the road in the direction of Windhelm, and did not look back—not even to notice he'd abandoned his axe on the shoulder.

Meanwhile, Tolfdir was doing his best to calm Malys down. She had relaxed enough to where he had gently released his hold on her, but that hadn't stopped her from feeling the onset of a textbook panic attack.

 _What_ was _that? Why did I—no. That wasn't me. That can't have been me!_

The Dunmer began to shiver, in spite of the warm air.

_Liar. Bad girl._

Her muscles had seized up completely. She couldn't move, she couldn't breathe.

_Malys._

_That was a long time ago! That's not me!_

Sweat was forming on her neck; her red eyes were rolling back into her head—

_Mistress. Malys._

_You_. Are. Not! Me!

She felt herself falling down, down, a hundred Red Mountains put together, while simultaneously feeling her insides being sucked high into the heavens—

Malys. _Malys!_

_Stay away from my children, you gray-skin slut!_

"Malys!"

There was a bright flash of green light. The calming spell, coupled with Tolfdir's panicked shouting, had been enough to bring her out of her frightened state—but only just. She was still shaking visibly, tears rolling down her cheeks, but the Master Wizard was holding her now, embracing her as warmly as he would any of his grandchildren.

"It's all right, my dear," she heard him say. "It's all right … "

* * *

It wasn't until they met up with Cosette, Vinye, and J'zargo later that afternoon, as they stopped for a rest in Shor's Stone, that Malys felt comfortable enough to talk to Tolfdir.

" … When Gjavar called me gray-skin," she said over a mug of mead to help calm her nerves, "it set something off in me. I don't know how long it's been hiding, but … I'd managed to keep it under control for the past few years. It's … almost like another _me_ —another Malys—only she _isn't_."

"A projection," Tolfdir mused, sitting across from her and listening attentively.

"Sorry?"

The old wizard twiddled his gnarled thumbs. "Understand, Miss Malys," he said, "there are many forces in Mundus and Aetherius that even the most learned of scholars know nothing about, least of all a doddering old fool like myself. And what goes on in here"—he tapped his balding head—"is only one of those forces.

"However, it would seem to me that you've been harboring these emotions, this hatred, for quite some time. Years, possibly, if what you've said is any indication. It also seems to me that you've been keeping a close eye on them … putting them under lock and key, as it were."

Tolfdir leaned forward. "To be sure, that's a very mature way to handle your emotions, Malys," he said seriously. "But you must take care not to overdo things. You tried to force too many old ghosts into that wardrobe—and had no one else been around … "

He let the implication hang in mid-air, and Malys gulped. "Emotions, for all their complexity, are much like magic, Miss Malys. Eagerness must be tempered with caution—"

"—or else disaster is inevitable," finished Malys, to a beaming look from Tolfdir. "But what should I do?" she asked. "Are you saying I should just go ahead and let that … that _thing_ out of me?"

" … Yes, and no," replied the Nord. "Take J'zargo. A wonderful mage he's become—and yet he yearns for more. More adventure, more trinkets and riches … and more knowledge. Not being able to travel with the Dragonborn as in those days of old has put a damper on that. So how, might you ask, does he manage to stay the same Khajiit he was back then?"

Malys thought. "Well, if he already knows Expert-level magic … I'd just say he practices a lot."

"Exactly, my dear—practice and imagination," Tolfdir affirmed. "Perhaps that is the solution to your problem as well."

Malys frowned. "How exactly do I do that?"

Tolfdir laughed. "Come now, Miss Malys," he said. "If I gave away all my secrets, well, I wouldn't be a Master Wizard of Winterhold now, would I?"

The dark elf couldn't help but agree with that.

"Feeling better, then?" Tolfdir asked. When Malys nodded, he stood up. "All right, then, we should probably head to Riften before it gets too dark. Come on, let's go and fetch the others."

Malys hurried after him, feeling significantly better.

Of course, with the way their luck had been so far, there would be one more challenge they would yet have to face.

* * *

_Riften_

"Stop right there!"

"Ugh. Now what?" Cosette groused under her breath, as the two faceless guards in front of the city gate leveled their swords at the mages.

Tolfdir stepped forward. "Is something wrong, gentlemen?"

"City's closed off to outsiders," said the guard closest to them. "Orders of Jarl Laila Law-Giver."

"We were hoping to get some rooms at the Bee and Barb," Tolfdir explained. "Did the Jarl receive any word about a College expedition into the Jerall Mountains? If she did, then that expedition would be us." He indicated himself and the mages behind him.

"You don't want to go in the Bee and Barb," said the guard. "This damn war reached a new head last night. Six people died in there during the night. Horrible scene. Jarl Laila ordered city-wide evacuation this morning, and there's talk of martial law if this gets any worse."

"What war? What's going on in there?" Cosette asked.

The guard huffed, and lowered his sword. Motioning for his companion to do the same, he asked the mages, "You know of Maven Black-Briar?"

Tolfdir frowned. "The woman who ran that meadery? Who was killed a few years ago?"

"She didn't just run the meadery," the guard said condescendingly. "She ran all of Riften. But someone didn't like that. The scum went so far as to order a contract on her head."

"A contract?" Malys' eyes were wide. "You mean they contacted the Dark Brotherhood?"

"No," said the guard. "They contacted the Morag Tong."

"What?!" Malys was incredulous. The Morag Tong was an assassin's guild from Morrowind, similar to the Dark Brotherhood. But where the Brotherhood glorified Sithis, the Tong celebrated the Daedric Prince Mephala. "I heard the Tong disbanded a long time ago! Wiped out—forced into hiding!"

"So did we—but that little slip of paper we found stuffed in Maven's severed windpipe proved us wrong. All signs point to the Tong killing Maven Black-Briar. Except one—and this war's the proof of that."

"What do you mean?" Vinye asked apprehensively. Malys was wondering the same thing herself—it sounded like there was more to this so-called "war" than the guards were letting on.

"That's not your place to know, elf," snapped the guard. "All you need to know is that if the Tong really were behind Maven's death, we've have those murderers clapped in irons by now."

"So is that it, then?" Malys asked Tolfdir. "Are we just going to have to go around the city?"

The guard sighed again. "Listen, if you're that badly in need of a place to sleep, the Merryfair Farm's a stone's throw from here." He pointed westward, and indeed, there was a farmhouse very near to where they were. "Talk to the elf inside, he'll give you a place to sleep if you've got the money."

"Thank you," Tolfdir said. "Best of luck to you—the times are changing, but they are still as troubled as ever."

The guard merely grunted as the mages departed for the farm.

Vinye jumped with a little squeak as Malys nudged her in the ribs. "Please don't do that," the Altmer scolded her, recovering remarkably quickly from the scare. "I _don't like_ being surprised."

"Sorry," Malys hurriedly apologized. "So, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"About the Morag Tong?" Vinye sighed. "You're from Morrowind, so I'd be surprised if you didn't know this already. But if the Morag Tong really killed Maven Black-Briar—writ and all—then whoever did the deed would have turned themselves in to the guards."

Malys nodded—that was how the Tong operated; they were a legally sanctioned assassin's guild, so they had to abide by the legal codes of the area where they carried out their duty to Mephala. "So the guards weren't just posturing," she said.

"Right," Vinye said. "And the Tong isn't legal outside Morrowind. Which can only mean one of two things: that Maven's murderer is a rogue Morag Tong … "

" … or they got tricked," Malys finished. Then, something hit her. "Wait, why are we even talking about this?" she asked Vinye. "We're mages of Winterhold, not assassins and murderers! This doesn't concern us." _And I hope to Azura it never does_ , she thought.

Vinye thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Well … it certainly gave us something to talk about," she said hesitantly.

And with that, the two elves walked towards the farmhouse, each feeling that she might have just found a new friend in the other.


	4. III

III

_Hall of the Elements_

" … Any information as to the whereabouts of the previous group of apprentices would be greatly appreciated. As of yet, there has been no sign of them," Phinis Gestor said to the handful of scholars scattered around the hall. It was getting close to midnight, and everyone here—including himself—had been fighting sleep for some time.

"Now, then," the College of Winterhold's instructor of conjuration said, indicating the flame atronach that had been twirling gracefully in the air next to him for the duration of his speech, "who can tell me how _this_ came to be?"

A very young Nord—hardly into her teens—raised her hand.

"It came through a portal to Oblivion," she said. "Falion told me it's a 'breach in the liminal barrier,'" she quoted, scrunching her face up as she tried to remember.

"Correct, Agni," coughed Phinis, "though perhaps our— _your_ —previous master ought to choose his words more carefully, and I shall tell him such the next time I find myself passing through Morthal. The liminal barrier is not a static phenomenon, or even a 'barrier' in the traditional sense of the word, and thus it cannot be 'breached' as such. Rather, think of it more as a conduit—a river. How fast or slow you can make this 'river' flow determines the strength and duration of your summon."

Agni scribbled some notes on a sheaf of paper.

"Which brings me to my next question," Phinis continued. "Camilonwe of Alinor states that such a portal is only temporary, and can only be sustained for several minutes at a time before dissipating. How, then," he asked, his mouth curling upwards in a little smile as he pointed to the flaming daedra again, "has this atronach managed to remain tethered to Mundus since our lesson commenced more than _ten_ minutes ago?"

There was silence from the assembly for a long moment, and then a smallish Altmer lifted her own hand. "A sustained transpontine circumpenetration of the limen is only possible though the aid of a hyperagonal, transliminal medium," she recited, without any indication that she was tired. "Only one such artifact is known to exist outside of theory: a sigil stone."

Silence. Phinis blinked owlishly. "Yes, well … you've certainly done your homework, Nirya," he commented.

"Camilonwe was a close friend of my family—and you can't even get into the Mages' Guild at Alinor unless you've memorized _Liminal Bridges_ ," Nirya said smugly. "And may I just say, I'd _certainly_ like to know how the College was able to secure the sigil stone that helped make this atronach possible."

Phinis bristled. "I'm quite sure that if you have indeed read Camilonwe's work in its entirety, you would not need to ask that question," he coolly parried. "Suffice to say it was a generous donation by—"

BOOM.

Whoever had 'donated' the sigil stone remained anonymous; Phinis was interrupted at that moment by the noise of the great double doors to the hall slamming shut. He frowned.

"Arch-Mage!" boomed the voice of an old Imperial in a yellowish-brown robe sprinting into the hall and towards Phinis with remarkable agility. "I must see your Arch-Mage at once!"

Faralda and Colette Marence, the restoration instructor, hurried in his wake. The Altmer was panting with every other step.

"Sorry—Phinis," Faralda gasped out. "Tried—stop him—insisted—urgent—"

"It had better be urgent," Phinis said irritably, half to himself, "to barge in on one of _my_ lessons." He nodded to the scholars. "We'll continue our lesson in the morning. Dismissed."

Once the last of the scholars had filed out, he turned to the elder. "Well, explain yourself!" he said accusingly. "Who are you, and why are you here?"

"My name is Lucius Anglinius," blustered the Imperial. "I'm a priest of Meridia. And if you do not take me to your Arch-Mage _right now_ , then your College will be in grave danger!"

 _Meridia?_ Phinis wondered. The Daedric Princes were all expected to have their own priests and followers, true, but up until now he'd never heard of the Lady of Infinite Energies having any of her own, especially not in Skyrim.

Colette huffed. "Arch-Mage Grimnir is resting," she said scathingly. "And seeing as how you've practically broken down the College's front door, I don't think he'd be willing to talk with you until you're willing to calm down."

There was a brief sizzling noise from behind them, and everyone turned to look. The flame atronach had disappeared; it hadn't exploded, Phinis noted, as the lesser daedra were known to do. It had instead been dispelled, as though by some invisible wave of a hand.

His frown grew more pronounced as he contemplated this. "Then again," Phinis finally said, as he came to a conclusion, "perhaps he may be willing to listen."

He turned to Lucius. "We'll escort you to the Arch-Mage. I would suggest you choose your words carefully—that is, if he chooses to hear them," he added.

Lucius toyed with the hilt of a sword under his robe. "Are you threatening me?" he said, a hint of menace in his voice.

"Not at all," Phinis smirked. "But how long before you leave College grounds—and, more to the point, _how_ you leave them—may well depend on it."

Lucius relaxed, and so—without realizing he was tense in the first place—did Phinis. "Apologies," Lucius grunted. "It's … been a rather long night for me."

The conjuration master silently agreed. "Nevertheless," Phinis said, "zeal for one's duty should not exceed the zeal for one's _health_. If you come to us in the dead of night again, please show some compassion, refresh yourself, and return in the morning when we are _all awake_."

Lucius grudgingly nodded, and the four adults made their way to the Arch-Mage's quarters.

When he came down an hour later, however, Lucius was far from tired, though he would not reveal it to the other three mages, who had stumbled from the room with various combinations of dread and surprise at what he had to say. Even so, Lucius would admit that Phinis had a point: he would have to rest well to perform Meridia's work to her satisfaction.

Therefore, he proceeded to the Hall of Countenance, where the instructors slept. Colette had been kind enough to point him to a spare bed. After praying to Meridia for her guidance in the task he would have to carry out tomorrow, he finally turned in for the night.

* * *

_Merryfair Farm_

"OW!"

Vinye and Cosette were unpleasantly roused from their sleep at Malys' shout, followed by the noise of an ice spike thudding into the skull of a skeever. The carcass of the large rat skidded across the grass where they had pitched their bedrolls, and hit Cosette in the knee.

"What was that all about?" Cosette grumbled as she stumbled from her bedroll, punting the dead rat into the field.

Malys was shaking her left hand, which was bleeding slightly. "Damn thing _bit_ me," she said crossly, looking at the dead pest with loathing.

"You should get that looked at," said the Breton airily. "Ataxia does some pretty bad things to your hands. Actually," she added, a sudden thought coming to mind, "now that I think about it … "

Gingerly, she picked up the skeever by the tail, and bathed it in flames from her free hand for about a minute. Then, once the body had been sufficiently burnt, she skinned off a large piece of the hide with the tip of her Forsworn blade, removed the fur and fat, and threw the result dispassionately on Malys' lap. "Here—eat up."

Malys pulled a face. "You're kidding, right?"

Cosette didn't even blink. "Any alchemist worth her salt knows skeever hides can cure just about everything if you cook them long enough," she said.

"You couldn't have put it in a potion, though?" Malys asked.

"Ugh—gods, I can't believe I'm even _related_ to you," scoffed Cosette. "You elves are as spoiled as they come."

"You do know I'm right here?" Vinye pointed out from behind her. The half-elf rolled her eyes, but otherwise paid no heed.

"Just eat the damn thing," Cosette said exasperatedly. "Back when I lived in the Reach, I hardly had potions of my own. If I got attacked by an animal, I'd eat some juniper berries straight from the trees, and I'd be back on my feet in a few minutes' time."

She looked at Malys, who was staring at her with a slightly hurt expression, and relented—though only a little. "I'm sorry, Malys, but this isn't the College," she sighed. "There'll come a time when you're going to need more than your magic to survive—and in the wild, that time might be just around the corner."

The Dunmer stared at Cosette, then at the piece of hide cooling on her robes, and groaned. "Fine," she said, picking it up with two fingers as though it might bite her. "But I'll take that bet."

And without further ado, she lifted the skeever's skin to her mouth, squished her eyes shut, and began to chew.

The substance tasted every bit as foul as she had imagined, and only the prospect of a cure kept Malys from spitting the piece of hide out then and there. But immediately, she knew Cosette had been telling the truth. She felt more invigorated, now, and the skeever bite was slowly becoming less and less painful.

Eventually, she forced herself to swallow, and coughed violently. "Yecch," she gagged. "I suppose it wouldn't be medicine if it didn't taste bad."

She stood up abruptly, and headed for the farmhouse. "I'll be right back," she said over her shoulder.

Vinye watched her go with a concerned look. "You could have just gone to the docks outside Riften, picked up a mudcrab, and mixed that hide with some of its chitin," the Altmer commented. "Any alchemist 'worth her salt' would know that," she echoed.

Cosette shrugged. "Maybe. But better she learns that lesson now than finding out the hard way."

"Ah! You're already up—good, good!" The two women turned to see Tolfdir and J'zargo striding up the path that led to the city's docks. Both were clutching long lengths of rope, and both of their faces looked less than cheerful.

"Where is Malys?" J'zargo asked, frowning.

As if on cue, an angry scream came from behind the farmhouse, followed by a continuous thumping noise, then more incoherent shouting. Suddenly, one of the smaller trees beside the farmhouse—just barely visible behind the roof—toppled to the ground with a groaning crash.

Malys stepped out a few seconds later. Her black hair was a little ruffled, and she was breathing heavily, but she looked noticeably calm in spite of this.

"My word!" Tolfdir exclaimed. "What happened back there?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," said Malys evenly. "I just thought I'd take your advice from the other day, Tolfdir."

"Oh?" The Master Wizard inclined his head slightly. "And … how did it work?"

"It'll take some time," Malys shrugged. "But I think I might be on to something." She glanced at Tolfdir in a very meaningful way, while J'zargo, Cosette, and Vinye all shared looks of confusion.

"Erm … well, if you say so," said Tolfdir. "I'm afraid we'll need to leave earlier than we were hoping for, ladies. We may have a problem. I'll explain on the way."

Fifteen minutes later, the five mages had packed up, cleaned up, and left Merryfair Farm exactly as it had been before they'd arrived—except for the felled tree that, much to the consternation of the farmer and his wife, had been impaled by upwards of a dozen ice spikes.

* * *

_South of Riften_

"Is that Rkund up there?" Vinye asked, gazing up the mountains. The clouds hugging the near-vertical cliffs in the distance almost completely obscured them. But the curved domes of the Dwemer towers were unmistakable, and she could see at least one of them at the very top of the mountains.

"How in Azura's name are we going to get up there?" Malys groaned.

Tolfdir cleared his throat. "Well, our initial plan was to pass through Darklight Tower," he explained, pointing far off to an imposing-looking fort a little to the west of Rkund, buried into the cliffs. "But I've word from that guard at the gate that some … well, less-than-savory people have moved in."

"Not more bandits!" Cosette exclaimed.

"Mm, if only," Tolfdir said grimly. "There've been reports of some ghastly rituals going on at the summit."

J'zargo growled unpleasantly. "Necromancers."

A chill went through Vinye's spine, and Cosette shrank so far into her robes that she looked like a little girl. As mages, all five of them knew well that the study and practice of reanimation was a banned subject throughout most of Tamriel. Even the College of Winterhold, while tolerant enough to teach the basics, was clear to state that it did not encourage its practice on people.

"If it was only myself and J'zargo, I might be all right with giving them what for," Tolfdir said. "However—and not to doubt you three—I wouldn't forgive myself if they managed to get their hands on any of you. Divines only know what they'd do to you."

"Then how do we get up there?" asked Vinye.

"That is the problem," J'zargo said. "Fortunately"—he brandishing his length of rope—"this one may know another way up the mountain."

Cosette blanched. "No," she said. "No way. I'm not taking another of your shortcuts, cat—I'll remember that wispmother from the _last_ one if I live to be a hundred."

J'zargo held up a claw. "Ah," he smiled, "but this time is different. If we are lucky, then we will not have to fight any monsters at all."

Malys looked skeptical. "And if we're unlucky?"

J'zargo was still smiling. "Then we will have to fight a dragon."

Everyone except him and Tolfdir froze in their tracks. " _What_ ," chorused the three mages.

Vinye made a noise like a skeever being stepped on; she felt like she might faint at any moment.

"The cliff slopes are most gentle _there_ , around Lost Tongue Overlook," explained Tolfdir, pointing to a huge Nordic arch that appeared tiny in the distance. "But something about that place has attracted the dragons ever since they returned four years ago. I'd wager there's one roosting up there right now."

Malys found her voice. "You just finished saying you didn't want us to get killed by necromancers!" she spluttered. "Now you're suggesting we might get torn in half, or burned to a crisp, or … _eaten_ by a sodding _dragon_?!"

Cosette was looking at the Khajiit with a blank look on her face. "You're insane," she said placidly, shaking her head. "I … I can't even be angry with you about that—that's _literally_ all I can say. You're utterly _mad_."

Vinye was inclined to agree, but the confidence of that Khajiit was infectious, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt herself coming back to her senses. She remembered that just the other day, J'zargo had mentioned traveling with the Dragonborn of legend. Vinye had also been inclined to believe him then, and now was also inclined to believe J'zargo had seen a few dragons in his time—and he'd like as not already killed a few of his own.

She mentioned this to him, and was pleasantly surprised to hear him laugh in spite of her trepidation. "Khajiit is flattered," he purred, smoothing his mustache. "But only the Dragonborn can truly kill a dragon. And in the time J'zargo knew him, he must have killed dozens of the beasts—perhaps even as many as a hundred."

Cosette didn't acknowledge the boast. "However, since none of us are Dragonborn, last time I checked," she said sardonically, "if we _do_ get attacked by a dragon, then we're just about sunk."

"Which is why we are _avoiding_ the dragon," J'zargo said patiently, "and will climb _away_ from it. Khajiit are very sneaky—the great thief Rajhin could steal the scales from a dragon's beating heart in his day. Do as Khajiit does, and we will reach the Dwarven ruin with our lives and limbs in one piece, hmm?"

After considering J'zargo's words, Malys shrugged reluctantly. " … At least with a dragon, you'll _stay_ dead," she said. "I'm for the idea."

"I suppose it's a _quick_ way to go, too," grimaced Cosette, gripping her Forsworn blade a little tighter.

Everyone now turned to Vinye. The Altmer had no doubt that her olive skin was now white as a snow elf, and her feet felt like they were anchored to the ground. She looked once more at J'zargo. That was enough.

"All right," she said with a gulp. "Let's go."

* * *

_Lost Tongue Overlook_

An hour later, however, the bravado had worn off, and with every second they spent on the worn stairs that would eventually lead to the summit of the overlook—and the dragon dwelling above—Vinye felt her confidence dropping like an anchor.

The only obstacle they'd encountered had been a simple soul gem, on top of a pillar that the ancient Nords had constructed to dispose of foolhardy treasure hunters—as if the dragon wasn't enough of a threat. Only Tolfdir's quick reflexes had saved them; even then, the ice storm it had blasted them with had been so potent that it took every bit of magicka Tolfdir had to deflect it with his ward. A firebolt from J'zargo knocked the pink gem off its plinth, disarming it.

For the last fifteen minutes now, they had been resting under a crag—not only so the Master Wizard could replenish his strength, but also because they were fearful the dragon might have heard the trap's activation. The suspense had not been kind to any of them, but Vinye doubted anyone's nerves felt worse than hers.

Eventually, J'zargo was convinced that the dragon had not, in fact, been roused, and beckoned them out, lifting a claw to his jowls. Slowly, silently, everyone obeyed, taking care to look where they stepped.

The plan was thus: they would climb to a height predetermined by J'zargo, who would feed them the ropes as he progressed. From there, the rocky slopes leveled off further still, and could be passed without the aid of any climbing gear—though the unevenness of the terrain still warranted the utmost care and attention. As the Khajiit was best suited to climb the cliffs both quickly and stealthily—and they would need as much of both as they could spare—they had unanimously elected he would go first. Tolfdir, being the heaviest, would act as their anchor in case of high winds.

Once Tolfdir was in his place, J'zargo commenced his climb, feeding both lines over his shoulder, the other four mages holding on like their lives depended on it—which was certainly true.

It was a very strange feeling, thought Vinye, as she felt the vibrations of the thick lengths of hemp, one in each of her tightly clenched hands. Occasionally, they would jerk about as the Khajiit leapt from one crag to the next like a saber cat, shrinking into a fuzzy speck the further away from them he climbed.

A roar echoed in the distance, and everyone froze. But the suspense died almost immediately; whatever it was, it was much too far away to be the dragon lording over the Overlook.

"He's insane," Cosette murmured to herself again. "He's going to kill us all."

"You're not afraid, are you?" Malys said. She might have sounded taunting if not for the slight tremor to her voice.

Cosette shook her head, and wordlessly jerked her head in Vinye's general direction. The high elf turned away quickly when Malys looked back at her, but not quickly enough to disguise her shame.

"He'll make it," Vinye said under her breath, hoping J'zargo could somehow sense the urgency in her. _He has to_.

And sure enough, after a number of minutes that might as well have been years, everyone felt a sudden tug on the ropes.

"He's over!" Tolfdir reassured them. "Quickly, now—fasten your bags to the rope and do exactly as I say!"

As the mages did so, Tolfdir busied himself with tying the ends of the two ropes together. They would use the combined lengths as a pulley system, pulling one while feeding the other to J'zargo, who would do the same thing. Meanwhile, the mages set about securing each of their packs as tightly to the rope as possible. Once this was done, Tolfdir signaled to J'zargo by yanking on the rope once, and the supplies were sent on their way, bumping and bouncing along the rocks.

The mages' efforts were flawless, but not entirely coordinated; there were several occasions where Vinye thought she could hear the tinkling of glass over the rising wind, and she fervently hoped that none of those noises belonged to her potions. Once, the wind grew so strong that everyone had to strain to keep their bags from being dashed against the cliffs. The rough hemp burned their hands; Malys' palms in particular were not a pretty sight.

"Dagon's _pits!_ " she hissed through the pain. But she held on, and eventually, their supplies made it over as well after another signaling tug from J'zargo. She immediately cast a healing spell on herself, sighing in relief as her scars resealed.

Now came the hard part. Each of the mages wrapped a thick strip of burlap around their torsos, and secured both ends of the rough cloth to the rope. Malys stepped forward against the rock, muttering oaths and prayers under her breath to every daedra from Sheogorath to Malacath.

"Hold the line behind you, and don't get too overconfident with your feet," Tolfdir instructed her. "Let J'zargo do the work. Keep as close to the rock as you can, and don't look down!"

" … Boethiah, inspire me," finished Malys. She nodded, tugged once on the rope, and J'zargo hoisted her upwards. There was some initial awkwardness as she stepped over the rocks, fumbling to keep the ropes untangled while simultaneously trying not to kick away from the cliff in a blind panic. She calmed down after around a minute, though, and the remainder of her climb suffered no setbacks at all.

Five minutes later, it was Cosette's turn. The Breton had also been mumbling under her breath the whole time. Vinye only caught " … This is not how I want to die … this is not how I want to die … " repeated over and over again like an incantation. She did not acknowledge Tolfdir's directions, or even look in his direction; still reciting her chant, she picked up the rope, started her climb, and was lost from view inside of a minute.

Another five minutes, another tug on the rope, and now Vinye vaguely felt her legs moving forward. Her entire body was numb, and she did not hear anything Tolfdir was saying, either. Her world had shrunk to this little—little only when compared to the massive mountains it was part of—slice of cliff in front of her, and two hemp ropes that might as well be cotton threads.

There was another roar, very far away. Vinye just barely registered it, and without any other thoughts, the high elf tugged on her rope and started her climb.

It was a climb she would remember for the rest of her life. Within seconds she had lost any sense of direction; the only colors were various shades of gray. The hemp rope was frayed and slippery, and she was constantly in danger of losing her grip. The rocks were no less so, and sharp in places as well; she could feel the edges ripping through her thin boots and into her heels.

How long it took her to make the climb, Vinye did not know. Time had stopped around her, and all she could hear was the scream of the wind in her ears. The gusts were bigger now, more frequent, and more regular.

 _Wait_ , a distant corner of her mind thought. _Regular?_

 _That's not the wind_ , she thought. _That's ... Oh, no_.

And then she heard it—an earsplitting roar that made the earth itself tremble in fear, for its source was older by far.

Vinye could not resist the temptation; she tore her focus away from the cliff—just in time to see the massive creature flying over the valley. Brilliant red and gold, with two leathery black wings the size of houses in place of arms, and bursting with bony spines as high as a man was tall.

But Vinye cared for none of that; all that she cared to know about right now was that there—before her eyes—was an actual, living dragon. And that dragon was heading _right towards her_.

It took every ounce of restraint not to scream—as fast as it was going, the dragon did not seem to know she was there. Neither did she want it to find out—so she turned back to the cliff, her heart slamming into her ribs, and resumed her climb. She went much faster now, and her pace was frenzied. The rocks tore into her robes and her flesh with equal resistance, but she did not care. All she thought about was one thing: _get away now_.

" _Laan rotte, bahlaan gein_ ," rumbled the monster. Vinye heard the words perfectly, even with the wind and the distance. Though she did not know what they meant—nor did she particularly care—the implications of this ancient beast being capable of speech turned her blood to ice.

It could only mean there was more than one.

Only seconds later, she heard a loud THUD, a screeching bellow, and another equally loud roar. Vinye glanced out of the corner of her eye for only the tiniest fraction of a moment, but that was enough to confirm her worst fears: a second dragon, purplish-black in color, had literally _rammed_ into the first dragon, throwing it off course.

" _Zu'u fen hon_ ," hissed this new dragon. " _Sulyeki nahkip. Krif voth ahkrin!_ "

The first dragon righted itself, and bellowed, " _Yol … Toor SHUL!_ " A jet of flame erupted from its jaws.

A lesser creature would have been cremated instantly. But the dragons were creations of Akatosh himself, immortal and without any concept of weakness. Something so trivial as fire only blackened the purple dragon's scales.

It responded in kind—" _Krii … Lun AUS!_ "—and released its own spurt of purple fire. This fire had far more of an effect on the red dragon; its scales immediately turned a sickly-looking pink. The other dragon was upon it not long after, tearing physically into the airborne bulk with fangs and claws.

Amidst all this, Vinye had been watching the battle slack-jawed. She had completely forgotten that she was currently a hundred feet above the ground and on a very exposed cliff, or that the rope hauling her upwards had stopped doing just that. She even forgot—though would discover later, much to her humiliation—the warmth that had been spreading across her groin ever since the very, _very_ near miss. In all her life—or in any of her travels throughout Tamriel—she had never ever seen anything quite so awe-inspiring or _terrifying_.

The dragons, meanwhile, continued their deadly battle both in the air and on the ground. Whole trees lay felled around them as they wrestled for supremacy, and dust storms blew in full force as they took to the skies again.

" _Yol … Toor SHUL!_ " roared the red dragon again, expelling a massive fireball. The purple dragon tackled it again right at the last word, knocking the blast far off its intended course—and straight for the mesmerized Vinye.

The next thing the Altmer felt was the hottest wind she'd ever felt in her life. Then, the cliff face simply _exploded_ around her. There was a sharp pain in her temple as a large piece of debris slammed into her head, and the world around her faded to merciful blackness.

* * *

_The air was on fire, choking the life from her lungs. Screams echoed all around her, and explosions both near and far echoed in her ears. Everything stank of thick smoke, of burning wood and flesh._

_Shadowy forms of all sizes, silhouetted against the ongoing blaze, flitted in every direction. Some of them caught up with others—and those others disappeared into the inferno, crying out all the while, never to be seen again._

_A voice, loud and commanding, drowned out the sounds of ruin and despair. She could not hear the words distinctly, but she understood them well enough._

_It was a death sentence._

_Another scream, louder and clearer than any before it, and then the world of orange and brown turned into a brilliant, bloody red—_

* * *

Vinye opened her eyes suddenly, and immediately wished she hadn't—excruciating pain flared all over her face, and she instinctively closed her eyes again. She could not move her mouth at all, not even to scream; it was frozen in a half-open grimace.

She opened her eyes again, more carefully this time. The same cloudless sky was there, and the ground under her back felt softer, flatter. The chirping of birds filled her ears; there were no signs of any dragons.

Pain snaked through her body as she tried to take in her surroundings. She could barely see her body—or, rather, the caked mass of blood that felt like her body—out of the corner of her eye.

"Not so fast, my dear," a familiar voice wheezed, and her eyes flicked upward. Tolfdir was standing over her, and she could see J'zargo, Malys and Cosette circled around her. All of them looked worried.

It took a long time for reality to sink in. "I'm … alive?" she croaked.

"By the skin of your teeth," said Cosette shakily. "If that fireball had hit just five more feet to the right, you'd be charcoal."

"It took all three of us the better part of an hour to haul you up here and get you healed," Malys added. "When we saw your body come up, we thought the worst had happened." She shuddered.

"Is this one well enough to eat?" J'zargo asked tentatively. He was holding a wooden bowl; whatever was in it smelled absolutely wonderful, and Vinye slowly nodded. The Khajiit tipped a ladleful of the stuff into her mouth; it was vegetable soup, and it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She closed her eyes, bliss spreading over her in spite of her present state.

"The soup is good, yes?" smiled J'zargo. "Then you should see the view."

Any thoughts of pain or fatigue left Vinye instantly. She stiffly raised out an arm, letting J'zargo take it, while Tolfdir lifted her by the shoulders, helping her stand. Once Vinye felt like she could stand without their aid, she straightened up. Aches still shot through her back and her legs, but she ignored it; she had to see for herself.

And when she did, she forgot about the pain, about the dragons, and about their expedition.

She was standing on the cliff, inches away from the precipice, and could barely see their starting point hundreds of feet away, below and to her right. Past that was a wide, sweeping valley full of greens and browns, and at the other end stood a massive mountain with a ruined fortress at its peak.

Then J'zargo took her by the arm, turning her around, and Vinye had to fight the urge to cheer. The Khajiit was now showing her three massive, golden-capped towers, some partially sunken into the ground, but no less the beautiful for the wear that came with thousands of years of disuse. One of the towers was carved into the mountain, and fitted with a set of bronze doors tall enough to fit a giant.

 _Rkund_.

They'd made it.

* * *

The novelty of the scenery soon wore off, as did the warming effects of J'zargo's vegetable soup. But by that time, Vinye had largely recovered from her ill-fated climb, and cast a few more rays of healing magic as the five mages prepared to enter Rkund.

Almost immediately, however, they could tell something was wrong. A large-scale excavation was definitely underway here, judging by the tents and pickaxes lying all over the place. But there were several bodies strewn about the smoothly worn stone of the pavilion, and spatters of blood beside each one. One corpse was slumped over a water-filled structure that Vinye guessed had been a fountain in its day.

A pile of glowing ash was nearby, and J'zargo inspected it. "Another wispmother," he said after a while, pulling a telltale threadbare wrapping from the remains. "The other miners must have fled inside. We should follow."

"We're right behind you," affirmed Tolfdir.

With a heavy groan, J'zargo forced the massive doors open, and they stepped into Rkund.

* * *

The halls were an unlikely combination of metal and stone, and yet they still seemed alive to Vinye. Thick metal pipes, the same color as the doors, belched thick clouds of steam that obscured their vision. Everything hissed and clanked, and the sounds reverberated off the carved walls, nearly deafening the elf. And over it all, there was an ominous, rumbling hum that made her very bones shudder.

"So this is a Dwarven ruin," Malys commented, clearly impressed. "They look a lot different than in Morrowind."

Cosette was awestruck. "Incredible … "

J'zargo, for his part, was already looking into the nooks and crannies of the hallway. He'd already found a few trinkets made of the Dwemer metal, and stuffed them into his pockets.

"Four thousand years, the Dwemer have been gone," Tolfdir said reverently, as they strolled through the halls, which sloped further downward with every step they took. "And still this machinery runs like it hasn't been four _months_. Imagine if they were still around!" he exclaimed. "The secrets they would have been able to share with us—astronomy, arcanics, running water! Alas," he sighed, "Tamriel will have to live without such comforts and advances for a very long time, I fear."

Vinye doubted "comfort" was a universal term, in this case. They had just passed a small living space, and even the beds here appeared to be made of stone.

She stumbled suddenly as she approached a grating—the floor had slightly sunk when she'd put her foot down on it. Immediately, Malys tackled her to the wall. "Move!" the Dunmer yelled.

She was just in time—rows of spears, triggered by the pressure plate, had suddenly erupted from the metal grate, missing the two elves by inches.

Malys and Vinye looked each other in the eye, both feeling a little embarrassed. In Vinye's case, however, her embarrassment was being replaced by something else that she could not quite place—something like … _curiosity? Was that the word?_

She hurriedly cleared her throat. "Sorry," she apologized, and quickly moved away from Malys. "I'll … I'll try to be more careful in the future."

She wondered if the dark elf had understood her simple message of thanks. But in actuality, Vinye had seen something in those blood-red eyes—and deep down, it had scared her.

 _Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu … who are you?_ Vinye wondered.

_Wait … House Hlaalu?!_

"There!" said J'zargo, before Vinye could dwell on this any further. They had entered what must have been the city's grand hall; the entire College of Winterhold could have fit into a corner of this massive space. Cosette was lost for words: she had resorted to turning round and round on her feet like a child, taking in every angle of this magnificent structure.

Six tents had been erected in the middle of the room, Vinye could see, and several dozen people were clustered around them, sitting around fires, telling stories, and cooking food. The general mood was subdued.

Tolfdir approached the nearest fire. "Are you with the excavation?" he asked one of the men, a thin, seedy-looking wood elf.

"Yeah," grunted the Bosmer, as he tucked into a portion of pheasant. "I wish I wasn't, though. This whole venture went straight to Oblivion this morning."

"I assume that wispmother forced you all down here?" Tolfdir asked gently.

The wood elf nodded, still not looking up from his food. "That's what you call that monster, huh? Yeah. Dro'zaka and six others were dead before the mercenaries were even fully armed. _They're_ all dead, too."

"How did the wispmother die, then?" Cosette looked concerned.

The elf was quiet for a few seconds as he chewed. "Solyn," he finally said. "He's the one who put this excavation together. I don't know what he killed that thing with, and I'm not keen to know. Those wizards give me the creeps."

"Where is this Solyn?" Tolfdir inquired, unabashed by the insult.

The Bosmer pointed towards the opposite end of the grand hall; Vinye could barely see a small recess in the wall containing a single golden lever. "He took the lift down that way," said the Bosmer. "Said he was going to study one of the deeper sections of the city—something called a 'Reliquary.'"

"Are any of you with him?"

The wood elf sighed sorrowfully. "I wish. We didn't decide until later that the safest place to be was right next to Solyn's side. About twenty of us went down after him a few hours ago. I'm the only one who made it back."

At the mages' expression of concern, he explained, "I think these ruins … I don't know … _sensed_ Solyn was here, somehow. Maybe it's because he's a wizard, and we're just miners and lowlifes. But the lower sections of the city have ... turned themselves on. Metal creatures are patrolling the halls below in droves, and metal men as well."

"Animunculi," Tolfdir said knowingly, exchanging a glance with J'zargo.

"If you're looking for Solyn," said the elf, turning at last to the mages with a warning look on his face, "then you're on your own. None of us are fool enough to go down there—I've had enough of the Dwemer for one lifetime, thank you very much. Give me the branches of Falinesti for this thrice-damned ruin any day of the week."

The name stirred something in Vinye's memory. "You've been to Falinesti?" she blurted, before she could stop herself.

The Bosmer turned to look at her, and immediately his expression turned from sorrow to outright fury. "You?!" he bellowed, causing some of the miners around him to stop and stare. "What the blazes are the Thalmor doing here?!"

Vinye stared back at him, totally nonplussed. "Thalmor?" she repeated innocently. "What are you—?"

"What's the matter, elf?" taunted the wood elf, his voice rising to an anguished howl. Vinye instantly backed away. "Wasn't it enough when you brought your butchery to Green-Sap? I lost two whole generations of my family because of you demons in the Dominion!"

Malys made a noise that sounded more appropriate from a wolf than a dark elf. "Vinye is a _good girl_!" she snarled, in the same growling voice Vinye had heard during that bandit attack the other day.

Tolfdir stepped forward, putting himself between the angry elf and Vinye, who was teetering on the edge of tears. "I'm terribly sorry, I think there's been a misunderstanding," he soothed. "Vinye is a novice at the College of Winterhold, as are these two young women." He indicated Cosette and the irate Malys. "We've not had relations with the Dominion for years, and even then, it was only one—"

"I don't care," said the elf. He'd quieted down considerably now, but that made his rage all the more terrifying. "You elves have no business being in here—and neither do I," he spat through gritted teeth, looking daggers at Vinye. "I'm leaving this place, and I hope I don't have to see you again. There's enough blood on the ground already—but I don't think it'll mind _one_ more dead elf."

And with that threat, the Bosmer rose up from the fire, spat in it, went to his tent, and did not speak any longer.

"Goodness," said Tolfdir after a while, before turning to Vinye. "Vinye, are you … all right?"

The Altmer was far from it. Her feet were rooted to the floor, her whole body was shaking, and her leaf-green eyes were wide open and streaked with tears.

"I'm … not," Vinye whispered, almost to herself, before she realized four pairs of eyes were staring right at her. She gasped.

"I'm not staying here," she said abruptly, wiping her eyes on her robes. "Let's just find this Solyn and get the hell out of here."

"Um … very well," conceded Tolfdir. "Why don't you three go as a group? J'zargo and I would like to explore some of the adjacent sections of Rkund." He pointed at several large double doors on either side of the hall.

"What about all those Dwemer machines?" Malys asked apprehensively, her voice—and her mood—back to normal.

"If this Solyn character is half the wizard that elf said he is," Cosette said, arms folded, "he'll have done most of the dirty work for us already. Besides, there's three of us, one of him, and we've both got a _wispmother_ to our credit. I think we'll be fine."

Malys stared at Cosette for a long moment, and shrugged. "I'll remember that for the eulogy," she said dryly.

They hurried after Vinye, who had already stepped into the lift by the time they were halfway there. Thankfully, Vinye had mellowed out enough to where she waited a few seconds before activating the lever at her feet. Once she had, there was a whoosh of steam, and the lift sank further into the ruins of Rkund.

* * *

The Bosmer's warning had not been unfounded; almost as soon as the lift had stopped, three spider-like automatons had jumped out from their ports to meet the novices. Malys' ice magic was ineffective; every shard she fired at them simply bounced off the golden metal. The claws of the machine hurt like a scrib's bite, as she found out the hard way, but at least there was no threat of paralysis.

Cosette and Vinye were having much better luck; one spider fell to Cosette's firebolts almost immediately, littering the hallway with broken scraps. Vinye hit the other two with the same blast of lightning, finishing them off with a small growl.

"Nice one," Cosette said, with equal parts appreciation and apprehension. It was clear to both her and Malys that the Altmer was still angry about the earlier incident, and Cosette, abrasive as she could be, knew when to draw a line.

Malys, unfortunately, did not appear to have the same boundaries. "You want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Not particularly," Vinye snapped. "Unless you want to talk about that _bandit_ … "

That silenced the dark elf. Cosette thought of a hundred ways to call Vinye out for rudely bringing up what she assumed was a sore subject, but something told her she wasn't in the mood for that, either.

Apart from a few more spiders, their expedition continued in silence until they reached a large bronze door. Further investigation, in the form of much pushing, pulling, and very colorful language from Cosette, showed that it was locked tight.

"I don't suppose anyone brought any picks?" Cosette ventured, once she'd taken out her frustration on the impassive golden bust beside the door (neither fire nor blade did so much as chip the stern face). Vinye and Malys shook their heads.

"Hang on," the Dunmer said, a thought coming to her. "I want to try something." She walked up to the door, bent forward to look through the lock, and pointed a finger right at the keyhole. A faint hiss filled the room for close on to a minute before she removed her finger, and experimentally pushed at the double doors.

To everyone's surprise, even Malys', they swung open.

"What did you do?" Vinye asked, forgetting for the moment how angry she was.

"I wanted to see if I couldn't use my ice to rust the lock," Malys said. "I didn't think it would actually work—I was counting on the Dwemer using the same metal in their locks as they have everywhere else." She shrugged. "I guess after you work your way through one lock, they all look the same to you."

And she strode into the next room, to bemused stares from her friends.

This chamber was unlike any of the others; it was a natural cavern—even larger than the city's grand hall—that glowed with unearthly greenish-blue light. Bizarrely, a great deal of it seemed to come from the house-sized rocks strewn all over the place, while the rest came from giant mushrooms with umbrellas wider than Vinye was tall. Some Dwemer ruins were built into the other end of this cave, making it all the more imposing.

It was strangely beautiful, they all agreed. Unfortunately, the pair of knee-high metal balls heading their way prevented them from appreciating it for long.

Suddenly, those spheres unfolded into something uncannily like a man, with a blade for one arm and a bow for the other. Before the mages could react, they had already fired a salvo of bolts at them. One of them caught Cosette in the shoulder, and she yowled in pain. Malys was immediately on her with her healing magic; not being able to provide any offense against the machines, she had resorted to playing the role of medic—which suited her just fine, for some reason; it was a role she felt more … familiar with.

With her assistance, the spheres were nothing but smoking piles of scrap one minute later, and they continued on.

"This feels like some kind of church," Vinye mused after another long period of silence, as they came to the ruins in the cavern. Rows of stone benches lined either side of the enclosed platform they had just entered. Four immense chandeliers were suspended above the space.

"The dwarves didn't believe in worshipping gods," Malys said, shaking her head. "At least, there's nothing that says they did. They preferred reason to religion. My predecessors, the Chimer, were the exact opposite, and they went to war over their differences four thousand years ago."

"Who won?" Cosette asked.

"No one," was Malys' reply. "The war only ended because all the Dwemer disappeared. The Chimer didn't get off easy, either. Azura cursed them all for what they did in the war—and they were changed into _this_." She patted her gray skin, and pointed out her red eyes.

The hum of the machinery seemed to grow a little louder in the ensuing silence—broken only by a sudden series of strange clicking and swishing noises, growing louder with each passing moment.

"Where's that coming from?" said Cosette, frowning.

Malys got to her feet, scanning the surrounding area. "I don't know," she said in confusion. "Sounds like it could be a blade trap—but I don't see any grooves in the floor."

"That's because they're not coming from the floor," Vinye said. She was pointing upwards, and looked fearful. The two other novices followed her finger.

High above them, the chandeliers were coming to life; metal panels were sliding, unfurling, and reconfiguring into vaguely insectoid shapes, almost like giant wasps. What passed for wings were made up of two double-ended blades that rotated so quickly they were almost a blur, and its body terminated in a "stinger" composed of a single levitating soul gem.

"Run!" Malys shouted, throwing up a hasty ward not a moment too soon: two of the wasps had blasted lightning bolts straight for the trio. One harmlessly hit the stone pavilion; Malys' imperfect ward was enough to deflect the other, but the shock of the impact left her arm numb. A third bolt caught her full in the chest, and she staggered back with a yelp.

 _Okay—that hurts a_ lot _more than a scrib bite_ , she decided, as she healed the burn, hissing in pain through her teeth.

Vinye, glowing blue from the effects of her regenerative powers, released her own lightning magic at the airborne automata. Three bolts hit the rotor of one of the wasps, destroying the mechanism and causing the machine to drop like a stone. The severed blades, still turning in midair, only stopped after they became embedded several feet into the ornate walls around the platform.

It was still three against three, and Malys knew that if they split up, they would be badly overmatched. She whirled in Vinye's direction. "Now would be a good time for one of your atronachs!" she hollered.

Vinye shook her head frantically, and barely missed blocking a bolt from a second wasp with her head. Malys didn't know whether to interpret that as "I'm too scared to try," or if that lightning daedra from three nights ago really had come from a badly written scroll instead of her own magickal reserves, as Cosette had claimed.

The Breton grunted. "All right—next best thing," she said, muttering a complex incantation that Malys wasn't able to hear. The Breton's left hand blazed purple, and she slammed her palm onto the ground.

The violet, flaming sphere that constituted a portal to Oblivion burst out of thin air before her, revealing a slim, elegant flame atronach. The daedra wasted no time in flitting about the cavern and firing at will; Malys silently cheered when she saw that the wasps appeared to focus their fire on the atronach instead of its conjurer.

Dwemer machines were certainly efficient, but they lacked the minds of men.

The atronach managed to down one more wasp and disarm another with its firebolts before a blast of lightning blew it apart with a sizable BANG. Cosette took a long draft from a potion to restore her lost magicka, and then summoned another atronach—or the same one again, for all she knew; daedra did not value distinction from one another.

Vinye finished off the damaged wasp with ease, scattering bits of metal all over the pavilion. The remaining automaton seemed to understand that it was outnumbered three to one, and attempted to turn tail. But three firebolts—two from Cosette, another from her summon—followed by a parting shot from Vinye made sure it didn't get very far.

Without the noise of the wasps, the ever-present murmur of Dwarven machinery felt unsettlingly loud as the mages turned to ascend a stone staircase. Most of it had been ruined by the collapse of one of the massive stone pillars that helped to support the high ceiling of the cavern, and it took a few minutes to navigate the piles of debris left behind.

Eventually, after climbing a winding ramp that took them nearly a hundred feet above the ground, the mages were faced with another huge bronze door. There were a large amount of pipes lining the walls.

Something about them didn't seem right to Malys, and she motioned for everyone to stop.

"What is it?" Vinye asked.

Malys pointed to the pipes. "See those?" She pointed to the flat, segmented ends of a number of them. "Those look like ports for more Dwemer machines to me. And I wouldn't be surprised if opening this door somehow opened them all. What do you think?"

Cosette frowned. "It's a risk we can't afford to take." She balled her hands into fists, and both were enveloped in fire. "I think I might know a way through, but I'm going to need some time to prepare."

She pointed behind the two elves. "There's some mushrooms on the walls right there. Those might be able to help."

While Vinye and Malys busied themselves with collecting the bright green fungi, Cosette fished in her pack for more potions, looking for one particular color of label in particular. Eventually, she found a small bottle with a turquoise-colored slip of paper on the stopper. She drank this; and felt her magickal reserves expand a little.

Then, once she had a sizable supply of the fungus, she consumed some of them. They tasted bitter, almost inedible, but the effect was immediate; the fire crackling in her hands was burning that much brighter. Not wasting any time before the mushrooms' effects wore off, Cosette went to work.

" _Meht, hekem, quam, iya … tayem-hekem, seht, cess, payem … hefhed!"_ she chanted, resting both of her flaming fists on the stone floor.

The smooth, worn surface beneath her feet glowed in a blaze of orange light, and then solidified into a complex series of curved lines and spiky sigils. It wasn't a perfect rune by any means, but hopefully it would be enough.

"All right," she finally nodded. "I've done what I can. On three, we open the door and make like a Nord after his mead. Everybody ready?"

The two elves nodded their assent.

"One … "

They took a collective giant step backward, nearly pushing their backs against the door.

"Two … "

Malys and Vinye each raised a hand, prepared to push the doors open at a moment's notice.

"Three!"

With all their might, the two elves pushed, and the doors groaned open. At the same time, true to Malys' prediction, every single aperture lining the pipes burst open, and at least a dozen automatons—mostly spiders, but with some deadly spheres near the back as well—sprang from their ports.

"Go, go, go!" Cosette herded them into the hallway on the other side of the threshold.

"Close it close it _close it_!" she barked seconds later.

Malys and Vinye pushed … and the doors didn't budge one inch. Nothing moved at all, save for the advancing wave of machines on the other side.

Malys swore under her breath. "Leave it to the dwarves to double-trap their own door," she murmured.

"Wards up, everyone!" Cosette cried, knowing they all had about a few seconds before they either survived or died. "Brace yourselves!"

She barely remembered to form her own magickal shield when the rune went off with a colossal BANG that showered the trio with golden shrapnel and burning gusts of wind. The shockwave from the detonation knocked them all back several yards, even with the full strength of their wards.

Once the noise from the explosion had faded, Malys stirred.

"Unh … " she groaned. "Was that a big enough rune for you, Cozy? I think J'zargo's starting to rub off on you."

Cosette did not stir—more out of choice than anything. "If I had the strength, I'd strangle you right now," she mumbled. "Even with those mushrooms and that potion I drank, I didn't have enough to make a perfectly contained rune—and even _that_ sapped almost all of my strength. So if you don't mind," she said, voice dripping with tired sarcasm, "I'd just like to lie here for a moment and look at all the stars in my eyes."

There was a long pause. "What stars?" Vinye was heard to say.

"Yes, may J'zargo see them, too?"

Everyone sat bolt upright at the familiar voice.

J'zargo and Tolfdir strode into the hallway as if they were simply enjoying a refreshing walk. The grinning Khajiit looked particularly stout around his robes, which jangled noisily with every step he took. Clearly he had been having the time of his life in stripping Rkund to its rafters.

"We thought it was high time we caught up," Tolfdir said. "Sorry that we didn't meet up sooner—J'zargo wanted to take his time."

"So. We. See." Cosette was grating her teeth so hard she was in danger of turning them to powder.

"It is amazing what one can find swept away in the corners of Dwarven ruins," J'zargo said happily, oblivious to Cosette's fury. "Many powerful trinkets … many of them small enough to fit in one's pockets as well."

"Would that include your arse?" Malys heard Cosette mutter under her breath. "'Cause I can think of one pocket where I'd like to _fit my sword_ … damned lazy cat … "

"I think this might be the Reliquary," Vinye said, studying the door for a long moment.

"What makes you so sure?" Tolfdir asked.

"A 'Reliquary' might mean something particularly significant to the Dwemer … or particularly valuable to anyone else," Vinye amended, suspecting that would entice J'zargo more than anything. "I can't imagine why any other door would be so heavily protected."

"And yet three mages made it through," Cosette said boldly. "If that's what the Dwemer call heavily protected, then clearly they weren't as advanced as everyone thinks."

"I should very much hope you don't end up eating those words, Miss Ionsaithe." Tolfdir's voice was unusually apprehensive as the five mages delved further into the ruin.

* * *

Vinye's assumption about the Reliquary soon proved to be correct. There was nothing to explicitly suggest it, of course, seeing as how none of them were any good at reading the Dwemer runes engraved here and there into the stone. But the layout of the chamber they had just entered—after disembarking from another lift that took them even deeper than the first one—could not be anything else.

The room was dimly lit, with only a single chandelier providing illumination. The shadows made it impossible to gauge the exact size of the room; there was no hint of walls, and only the barest indication of an immensely high ceiling. Three raised platforms were arranged in a circle around the exact center, which was raised slightly higher than the platforms were; there was nothing on them except ruined books.

"Something smells foul," J'zargo whispered, paws wrapped in fire.

Malys agreed—the air was stifling, much hotter than it had any right to be. It was almost impossible to breathe.

"We must be very far below the surface indeed," Tolfdir ventured. "It's quite possible that even the Dwemer couldn't dig any deeper then where we are now. The heat under this stone must be unbearable."

"I'm going to risk some more light," Vinye said. Her hand glowed with a blinding white color. Before anyone could stop her, the Altmer had fired a slow-moving ball of magelight at what she could only hope was the nearest wall. Within ten seconds, the magelight had found one.

The wall moved.

Suddenly, massive golden gears began to turn. Stone ground against stone as formless shapes moved in the darkness beyond. Fires leaped up in braziers, bathing the entire chamber in blinding light.

And Tolfdir, J'zargo, Vinye, Malys, and Cosette stared in awe at no less than _three_ titanic Dwemer centurions—created in their masters' image, but more than twice as tall and infinitely more durable—plodding out of their gantries within the walls. Each of them had a hammer the size of an anvil built into one enormous arm, and an equally large halberd implanted in the other. Steam billowed out from their shoulders and all of their joints.

Beneath their bulk, spheres and spiders skittered about, leveling their own weapons at the five intruders, while more of the infernal mechanical wasps buzzed over their heads. The mages were surrounded within moments, and any possible exits—seen and unseen—were now completely cut off.

Cosette's beady eyes darted from one machine to the next. "I won't take back what I said earlier," she said ruefully, bringing her Forsworn blade to an attack stance and readying a firebolt in her free hand.

"No one's blaming you for anything," Vinye rebuked her, lightning spells at the ready. "I was the one who rushed in here, you know."

Malys chuckled in spite of herself. "First to ten buys first round at the Frozen Hearth. Sound good?"

"J'zargo will take that bet," said the Khajiit, lightning in one paw, and fire in the other. "These trinkets will buy much mead for us, he is sure."

Malys hefted her own fists, ice magic at the ready—even though she knew it would do nothing whatsoever. "Then let's get—"

A new, unexpected noise echoed through the chamber, like a giant engine slowing to a halt.

"—started?"

The automatons shifted in their stance; the centurions and spheres sagged forward, arms hanging limply at their sides. The spiders and wasps continued to hover, but now there was no indication that they perceived the mages as intruders—or even that they were even aware of their existence.

And then another, even more unexpected, noise emerged.

"Fascinating, aren't they?"

The mages whirled around, looking for the source of the voice.

"No one knows how they've survived for as long as they have," said the voice: a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to meld with the droning of the distant machines. "And yet, they are only the _least_ of the Dwemer's creations."

Malys heard footsteps. "Who are you?" she said on reflex. "Show yourself!"

A sharp intake of breath came from the shadows, and the footsteps grew louder. "Ah. You must be the mages of Winterhold. I'm glad you could join me here today."

And finally, the owner of the voice stepped out into the main chamber, almost as though he'd walked right through the walls. He pulled back the hood of his modest, dirt-brown robes over his head, revealing himself to be a bald Dunmer with a grayish-black beard tied into a knot. His face was wizened, and yet charismatic as well—there was no telling if he was thirty years old or three hundred.

But Malys was especially drawn to his eyes. Where most Dunmer had eyes that were stained like blood from the eternal curse of Azura, his burned like fire. They were unquestionably the most dangerous-looking eyes she had seen on _any_ race, let alone on a Dunmer, and she instinctively knew that this person was a very powerful wizard indeed—perhaps even on the level of the Telvanni masters.

"My name is Solyn," the Dunmer introduced himself. "Welcome to the Reliquary of Rkund—a hidden city that even the fastidious Dwemer did not know existed. It is here that the greatest artifacts that the Dwemer had ever created were to be sealed forever—after they were stolen from the hands of Lord Kagrenac himself."

"Is that so?" Tolfdir said, raising a bushy eyebrow. "And how would you know all this, Mr. Solyn?"

Solyn laughed. "Solyn will do, thank you. But if you wish, then you may call me Mr. Aren."

Tolfdir started. "Aren?" he said, instantly alert.

"Now you're beginning to see why, of all the institutions devoted to the research and practice of the arcane in Tamriel, I called the College to this incredible discovery," Solyn said. "They and I have something in common. Or, more to the point, _used to_ have some _one_.

"You see, the predecessor to your Arch-Mage of Winterhold—the late Savos Aren—was my father."


	5. IV

IV

It took a few moments for Solyn's words to sink in. The sounds of the Dwarven machinery seemed to magnify tenfold in the pause in conversation.

"Your … father?" Tolfdir finally asked. Gone was his jovial, avuncular attitude; now, the old Nord looked visibly rattled. "I don't remember Savos Aren ever talking about his family."

Solyn's face fell only a little—if he was disappointed, he certainly wasn't letting it show. "I can't say I'm surprised," he said heavily. "For the longest time, I tried asking him, son to father, to move on and change his mind. Perhaps if he had, House Telvanni might well have made a damn good wizard out of him.

"But Savos was adamant about Winterhold—even after the Great Collapse that nearly destroyed the city. He told me—rather forcefully at that—that his decision had nothing to do with proving himself through magic, but through acts of good faith for Winterhold and its people, so they might be able to stop blaming the College on that unfortunate incident."

He sighed. "Perhaps his heart was in the right place," he admitted. "Then again, he said the same words to me when I told him I had more interest in the history and culture of the Dwemer than in magic. Suffice to say, Savos and I got along less and less as we grew older."

Malys saw Tolfdir and J'zargo exchange glances. She'd not heard of this Savos Aren before, but clearly these two had been very close to him on some level in the past. It was clear that they hadn't been earlier informed of any of this—and they did not look pleased to hear it.

A sudden grating noise jolted her out of her pondering: the Dwemer machines were beginning to move again. The centurions were flexing their arms threateningly, and the wasps' soul gem 'stingers' were starting to crackle with electricity. Whatever this change in behavior implied, Malys wasn't sure she wanted to see for herself.

Solyn noticed this, too, and immediately his arms began to glow a bright green, all the way to his shoulders. He waved them this way and that for a few seconds, before slamming them down on the carved stone floor. A huge green sphere of energy erupted from the point of contact, washing over the automata like they were never there.

Then it was gone, as swiftly as it had been born, leaving only a faint green haze hanging over each automaton.

"Calming magic," Malys whispered in realization. _He's controlling the automatons with just illusion magic?_ Vinye rounded on her, and the Dunmer knew she'd come to the same conclusion. _That's master-level magic, at the_ least!

 _Who_ is _this elf?_

"That's impossible," Vinye said, shaking her head. "Automatons are just metal and steam. They shouldn't even _have_ a mind to calm."

Solyn smiled. "I won't bore you with the details," he said, "but it can be done. I will say this, however—it's not exactly something every mage has the raw skill to accomplish. Such a feat is very rare, even among the Telvanni."

Malys couldn't resist a sidelong glare at Cosette. "'Illusion doesn't sound all that useful,' huh?" she smirked.

The look the Breton gave her in return would have burned through solid ebony.

"So what in the world brought you to this little corner of Skyrim?" Tolfdir asked, clearly anxious to change the subject. "You said that even the Dwemer didn't know about this city?"

Solyn nodded. "Correct. I'm a scholar of the Dwemer in Morrowind, although the Argonian invasion forced me to, shall we say, travel abroad for a while. It wasn't until recently that I came across a set of tomes inside a Dwemer ruin in the Redoran District. They were ruined through and through, but I managed to translate enough of the books to discover the existence, and the location, of this citadel. Further research alluded to a rebellion among the Dwemer clans, shortly before the end of the War of the First Council, and their subsequent disappearance."

"A rebellion?" Tolfdir was intrigued. "Over what, precisely?"

Solyn was silent for a moment. "How much do you know," he said, "about Kagrenac's Tools?"

Malys gasped. She indeed knew what they were—every Dunmer knew of the profane Tools that had changed their ancestors, the Chimer. "They were some of the most powerful artifacts the Dwemer ever made," she said softly. "Keening, Sunder, and Wraithguard—they were created by the Tonal Architects to control the Heart of Lorkhan and ascend to godhood."

"And we all know how that turned out," Solyn sighed mournfully. "There was a popular theory among the dwarves before their disappearance that using the Tools on the Heart would lead to their undoing—a theory that was rebutted by Bthuand Mzahnch and his discourse, _The Egg of Time_. Well, we scholars would say rebutted—although a number of Dwemer instead believed at the time that it had been _forcibly suppressed_."

Vinye still looked skeptical, but her expression was slowly turning into a kind of quiet awe. "Are you saying the Dwemer censored the majority opinion of their entire population?" she said.

"If those tomes I found were any indication, then yes," answered Solyn. "As you can well imagine, some of the Dwemer didn't like that, and a respectable band of them deserted their clans in disgust. They journeyed to this place, and they constructed this entire ruin in secret. After it was completed, they planned to steal Kagrenac's Tools from the Chief Tonal Architect himself, and bring them here to be sealed away for all eternity."

Malys was thunderstruck. Looking around, she saw similar expressions on Cosette, Vinye and J'zargo. Tolfdir, however, still looked very worried, and she couldn't blame him. _Stealing Kagrenac's own Tools—that's thievery worthy of the Guild, if that's true_.

Solyn motioned to the three platforms around him. "Please, see for yourself," he invited.

Malys felt her legs moving numbly to the nearest podium. From a distance, it looked unremarkable. But now that she was much closer to it, she could see a T-shaped alcove carved into the rock—large enough, she surmised, to hold a fairly small hammer.

And then, as if that hammer had just delivered a crushing blow to her chest, she staggered back.

_Sunder._

Suddenly Malys was sprinting to the next platform, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the others following suit, interested to see why she was suddenly so excited. This next plinth also bore a unique indentation, just the right shape and size to fit a large dagger.

_Keening._

By the time she reached the third platform, Malys already knew what would await her, and yet the shock and awe still came. This carving was larger than the other two: a pair of armored, life-size hands, folded together in a V as if in prayer.

_Wraithguard._

"By Azura," she whispered, unable to believe this was happening, that this was all true. _The end of the Dwemer … the transformation of the Chimer … all of it caused by three little tools. And they could have been here, right here in front of me …_

"Yes," Solyn said, and Malys wondered if he had read her mind. "It's almost enough to wish the Dwemer were still here, isn't it?

"Unfortunately," he said sorrowfully, "for the Dwemer, there was no _if_ —only _when_. The rebels knew from the beginning that their actions would eventually be discovered, no matter how much planning they did; they could only hope they succeeded before they were exposed. Alas, the tomes I translated say that Rkund was sacked not twenty years after the first stone was laid. Its architects and citizens—even the women and children—were dragged back to Morrowind, and summarily executed."

Vinye looked unusually pale as she bowed her head, and Cosette wore an expression that suggested she'd suddenly experienced a very nasty taste in her mouth.

"Which brings us back to where we began," Solyn said, "and why I have called you all here."

"Go on," Tolfdir said apprehensively.

"For the longest time while I studied the Dwemer," Solyn said, "I entertained the slightest possibility that maybe—just maybe—there would come a day when the Dwemer would return to Tamriel, and all the mysteries they left behind would be solved at last. But ever since discovering Rkund and its history, I've begun to question if such an endeavor would be worth it in the end. The Dwemer did great and wondrous things, it is true, but they also committed many atrocities against their own race and others. And the risks, I fear, would far outweigh the rewards.

"So I've decided to give up pursuing the subject of their return. It pains me to say it," Solyn amended, seeing Tolfdir pull a double-take in confusion, "but there are some secrets that should remain so."

"But … the _Dwemer_ ," Vinye breathed, perhaps unable to believe that such a powerful wizard could be defeated simply by sheer reluctance. "How can you just _give up_ on them? Don't you at least want to know _where_ they disappeared?"

Solyn fixed her with a stern glare. "There are mysteries of Aetherius, young mage, that neither the Daedra nor the Divines will ever solve," he said solemnly, "and the disappearance of the dwarves is one of them."

Vinye's argument died on her lips, and she closed her mouth. Deep down, Malys knew Solyn was right, but there was one more question that was bothering her. "What does all that have to do with us?"

"Straight to business, aren't you," Solyn said approvingly. "Very well. I will remain here and see this excavation through to the end. Until the last bit of rock has been cleared, which I estimate will take some more months, I would like you and your College to bring as many relics of the Dwemer as you can spare to Rkund. I will make sure your institution is handsomely compensated for your efforts."

Immediately upon hearing the phrase "handsomely compensated," J'zargo emptied all his pockets in one fell swoop, and a massive amount of gears, levers, and other Dwarven trinkets Malys didn't recognize fell to the stone floor with a cacophonous rattling noise. The Dunmer laughed in spite of herself, and Cosette merely slapped her scarred hand over her eyes.

Solyn didn't seem fazed at all. "I adore initiative as much as the next mer," he smiled, "but I'm not looking for just any old Dwarven artifacts. Only the oldest and most powerful of their creations will do."

That was when it hit Malys. "You want Kagrenac's Tools."

Everyone was silent, and—if only for the slightest moment—Solyn looked understandably unnerved to see five pairs of eyes fixed accusingly on him. But he recovered quickly.

"Yes," he said, surprisingly casual given the circumstances. "But there are older, and perhaps more powerful relics as well. Many Dwemer died to make this Reliquary possible—and I can think of no better way to honor them than to fulfill their dream at last. Kagrenac's Tools, and all the other paragons of the dwarves, will be sealed here forever—and Tamriel shall be all the safer for it."

He looked Tolfdir in the eye. "Do we have a proposition, then?" he asked.

Malys could almost see the wheels turning in the Master Wizard's mind. Surely he knew as well as Malys did that the locations of the Tools had been lost. The last to possess them had been the Nerevarine, and that legendary hero had journeyed far to the east, it was said, and perished in Akavir two hundred years ago.

If she was honest, Malys was interested in finding the Tools, but not looking forward to finding all three. Those artifacts had given the Tribunal godhood, but at the expense of their own people. Solyn was right to honor the Dwemer and the Dunmer for what the Tools had done to both races, she felt. But the prospect of their reunion—even if he was trying to bury the proverbial hatchet—was too much to think about.

Toldfir finally stepped forward, his mind apparently made up. "I think it would be best if we returned to Winterhold for the time being," he said definitively, "and asked our Arch-Mage to consider your offer. We'll send a courier with our decision by week's end."

For a moment, Solyn looked as though he wanted to negotiate terms for a little while longer before he cleared his throat. "All right, then," he said, smiling genially at Tolfdir. The old Nord didn't smile back. "I eagerly await it."

He nodded perfunctorily at the rest of the mages. "And I look forward to doing business with Winterhold's best and brightest," he added, before stepping off into the shadows.

"We should probably take our leave," Tolfdir murmured, glancing left and right at the charmed Dwemer machines. "There's no telling when that calming magic is going to wear off."

Malys and the others were only too happy to agree.

* * *

None of them remembered how long it took them to find the exit to the lost Dwarven city—it might have been many hours, or mere minutes. Each of the five mages had too much on their minds to really pay attention.

"This could be beneficial for us," Malys heard J'zargo say in a hushed tone to Tolfdir, as they rounded the corner to the final set of doors that separated them from Skyrim. "Perhaps more so for the College, and even for the city of Winterhold."

Tolfdir said nothing.

"This one is troubled, perhaps?" J'zargo asked cautiously. "Khajiit will listen."

"Mm … I'm afraid I'm not quite sure," the Master Wizard murmured. "I don't know if I should just brush it off as an old man's intuition … but that wizard, Solyn. For him to just come out of the blue the way he did … "

"Then you think Solyn was not being honest."

"I wish I knew for certain," Tolfdir mused. "But you were at Savos' funeral, J'zargo. You saw how few people outside of the College came to the service. Why, the only dark elves there were Drevis and dear Brelyna. Not a hint of his family at all!"

J'zargo smoothed his mustache with a claw, apparently deep in thought. "Like father, like son," he finally said. "Perhaps Savos' father did not approve of his decision either, and disowned him for it?"

There was a long period of silence.

"J'zargo, my boy," Tolfdir said, his voice tired but final, "I think, for right now, it would be best if we not discussed this any further."

The Khajiit seemed to take the hint, and Malys only caught the slightest nod from him.

They pulled open the final doors, and Malys had to shield her eyes as the bright sun blinded her. _That was odd_ , she thought. _We were in there for who knows how long—I thought it would be nighttime by now!_

"Hold it right there."

It was only at that moment that Malys realized that it _wasn't_ daytime—and that that light _wasn't_ coming from the last rays of the now-setting sun.

No less than ten guards—from Riften, judging by the color of their cloaks and the crossed daggers painted on their shields—had surrounded the mages in a semicircle, brandishing every kind of weapon imaginable from battleaxes and torches to bows and arrows. Tolfdir immediately raised his hands in the air, and indicated the others should all do the same.

"What is the meaning of this?" J'zargo said indignantly.

"What does it look like, cat?" one of the guards shot back. "You're under arrest, the lot of you!"

Malys went rigid. _Under arrest?!_

"On whose authority?" Cosette asked defiantly.

"Mine." The bright light that Malys had previously assumed to be from the sun dimmed suddenly, and revealed another man in the middle of the formation, wearing a yellowish-brown robe and a triumphant smirk.

He was advanced in years, Malys could see, perhaps even as much as Tolfdir, and his eyes were a uniform milky white. But the strength of the light emanating from his hand left her in no doubt that this man was far more than just an ordinary guard—and perhaps more than just an ordinary mage.

"Malys Aryon," said the old man. He was looking right at her, in spite of his blindness, and the Dunmer instinctively knew this was not so much a question as it was an order.

"Who wants to know?" she replied warily.

The old man smiled with the leer of the cat that'd just caught the mouse. "In the name of the Lady Meridia," he said, "I arrest you, 'mage of Winterhold', under suspicion of the crimes of seditious conspiracy—and vampirism."

* * *

_One day earlier_

"Vampirism?" Colette Marence showed genuine shock at the word. "You're telling us one of our novices is infected with vampirism?"

"Vampirism is not some mere _infection_ ," Lucius told her, as he paced the floor of Arch-Mage Grimnir's quarters. "It is a blight on this world; one that should never have existed, nor should have any right to."

"Nevertheless," the hooded Nord to Colette's right gently said, "this is a very serious allegation you are making, priest. I should hope you have some proof of this."

Lucius cleared his throat. "The night before this one," he began, "two bodies were recovered on the edge of the city limits. The town guard deemed them to be vampires, and thought it wise to send for me."

Faralda jerked her head upwards; Lucius made a mental note of this reaction. "Those two bodies I saw … I had thought they were merely bandits. And now you're saying—"

"They weren't," Lucius finished for her. "I was able to identify the telltale signs of Sanguinare Vampiris. Those so-called 'bandits' were Volkihar vampires. Their activity has increased of late, and they represent a more serious threat to Skyrim than ever. Such a serious threat, I feel, warrants such a serious accusation, Arch-Mage—and demands equally serious action!"

"And we still demand proof of this accusation," Phinis Gestor said heatedly. "And if you don't offer it to us this instant, I will personally have you escorted from the grounds until such a time that you do!"

"Phinis," Grimnir grunted warningly. The Breton sucked air through his teeth, but said nothing further.

Lucius growled a little bit—he had expected such learned and experienced mages to recognize the severity of the situation. "I studied the ways of the vampire as a Vigilant of Stendarr, before I took up Meridia's burden," he explained. "These creatures seldom travel alone, and almost always in groups of three.

"Knowing this, and having examined—and summarily disposed of—the two bodies, I then made for your College to seek the third. The guards had informed me that someone had arrived at your gates, on or about the same time as the vampires' attempted attack."

"'Attempted?'" Faralda frowned suspiciously. " … How exactly did these vampires die?"

"My examinations revealed massive puncture wounds to their vital organs. They were more consistent with magickal means of attack than from physical weapons. Ice magic, more to the point."

"So a novice fended off two vampires?" Phinis crossed his arms. "All that seems to prove is that we've picked up a damn good novice."

"Although," Faralda said, "I seem to remember that Dunmer being injured when I tested her for entry."

"Dunmer?" Lucius instantly became alert—now they were making progress. "What Dunmer?"

"The last novice I let through was a Dunmer. It's possible she might be who you're talking about."

Lucius looked Grimnir directly in the eye—or at least, where he thought there might be eyes. "Where is she now?" he demanded.

Grimnir pondered this. "I would imagine she's in the Rift," he said, "within the Dwarven ruins of Rkund. She is with a number of our other mages there."

Lucius swore under his breath, and silently begged Meridia's pardon. "Then you have made things infinitely more complicated than they had any right to be," he said. "A vampire is a serious threat—a Dunmer vampire is even more so. And you, Arch-Mage, chose to commit an incredible act of folly, and let it loose!"

Colette was incensed. "How dare you! We had no prior knowledge that this Dunmer might possibly be a vampire!"

"Nor do you have any knowledge on the matter, Master Anglinius," Faralda added. "Thus far, all you've offered for proof is conjecture. And you're asking us to hand over one of our own students on such a flimsy basis?"

Lucius sprang to his feet, his sightless eyes sparking with fury. "I am a priest of Meridia!" he protested. "I am bound by honor and duty to carry out her wishes and purge this world of all traces of the false life! I am not obligated to answer to your mundane institution!"

Colette lost her temper. "You are obligated to abide by our judgment!" she shouted, rising from her chair as well. "And we judge this to be an internal matter. Neither you, the Vigil, nor your mistress have any power in this!"

"You are aiding and abetting a creature of the night!" bellowed Lucius. "I would have you judged as such for allowing this corruption to flourish on Tamriel!"

"ENOUGH!"

Grimnir's roar was so loud that it shook the rafters. Colette and Lucius quieted down immediately, and turned to look at the Arch-Mage, who was quietly rising to his feet.

"Madame Marence, you will not make such decisions on my behalf," Grimnir rumbled from under his hood. "Master Anglinius, you will _not_ antagonize my staff _or_ my students under _any_ circumstances."

He heaved a sigh, and sat back down. "Now—that having been said," he continued calmly, "I consider this within the College's territory. Therefore, we will conduct our own investigation into the matter. However,"—Grimnir held up a gloved hand in Colette's direction—"however, I will allow you to journey to Rkund, and escort our mages back within College grounds. I trust that they will come to no harm."

Lucius said nothing, but remained at his feet. Colette directed a very angry look at him.

"And a word of warning, priest of Meridia," Grimnir said, the already low temperature of the chamber dropping further still with every word he spoke. "One of the mages there is my Master Wizard; I am already expecting a full report from him on his findings. And if I learn from him that my trust in you has been misplaced, then neither the Daedra nor the Divines will save you from _me_."

He stood up abruptly. "That will be all." He turned to Colette. "Show him to the Hall of Countenance; he can sleep in Mirabelle's old quarters for the night."

"Yes, _sir_ ," said Colette acidly, stalking out of the chamber. Lucius followed after her.

* * *

"I think you'd best explain yourself," Tolfdir said warily, crossing the distance between himself and Malys in a few strides and standing protectively behind her. "Vampirism is a very serious accusation to make."

"So I've been told," Lucius Anglinius said dismissively. "Your College made that very clear." He proceeded to explain, for the third time in two days, the circumstances of his initial arrival in Winterhold.

Malys grew more flabbergasted with every word he spoke. She had assumed the vampires were the stuff of legend—they were virtually unknown in Morrowind, though she had heard the old stories about the Quarra and Berne tribes. Now, to hear that not only did they exist, but that she had killed two of them? She was unsure whether to feel elated or terrified at this news.

"When did you first arrive at the College?" Lucius asked.

 _Terrified it is, then_ , she thought. "Um … three nights ago?"

"When did you first encounter the vampires in Winterhold?"

Malys frowned. "The same night I came to the College," she said awkwardly, as though it was common knowledge. "Are you trying to say they infected me?"

"It wouldn't matter," Vinye piped up, off to Malys' left. "Sanguinare Vampiris isn't the same as vampirism—not unless you spend too much time without treating it. Cosette over here"—she indicated the Breton—"gave her an antidote for a skeever bite she had earlier this morning; I watched her make it, and I watched Malys take it."

"Why should we believe you, Thalmor bitch?" one of the guards said brashly, leveling his sword at her.

For a long moment, Malys thought those would be his last words; so terrible was the look on Vinye's olive face. But the high elf inhaled deeply and stared at the guard with cold fury. "Were I as civilized as you," she whispered, loud enough for him to hear, "I would _burn_ you for your words, and _burn_ your ashes until _nothing_ of you was left."

"Now, now," Lucius said, smiling like a father chastising his squabbling children. "There's no need for any of us to be so vulgar. I did not come all this way just so we could open old wounds between nations."

As he lowered his blade, Malys heard the guard mumble what sounded like " _Speak for yourself_."

"Well, there you are," she said, feeling a little better in spite of the continued tension. "I'm sorry to say this, but I'm afraid you came out all this way for nothing. If these vampires even infected me at all, I was cured this morning. So, if you'll just be a _good boy_ and send us on our way—"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Lucius interrupted. That smile was still on his face, but the exasperation had been replaced by something like exhilaration—something that made Malys even more worried. "Where were you on the night before you came to Winterhold?"

Malys stopped. That was a question she hadn't been expecting. Neither, apparently, had Tolfdir. "How is that even relevant?" he demanded.

"All in good time, Master Wizard," Lucius said knowingly. "Now, please answer my question, and we won't have to do anything we might come to regret."

Realizing she had little choice but to comply, Malys thought … and thought …

… and thought.

Nothing.

"I … " she finally stammered, shaking her head, "I don't know."

 _Bad girl_.

 _Nothing_.

Lucius furrowed his brow. "Surely you must remember something," he said, in what he must have assumed was a reassuring voice.

I _remember._ The wicked voice echoed in her head, hissing like a snake.

_You again?!_

_I remember_ everything _._

"I don't … I don't remember." She was beginning to shiver again.

 _Then be a_ good girl. _Open it up._

_Why can't I remember?_

Her joints had locked into place; her feet were frozen to the stone.

"I don't know," she mumbled again. "I don't remember … "

_Rip it apart. You've done it before._

_I can't—_

"Where is the nest from whence you came, vampire?" Lucius shouted. Flecks of spittle landed on her cheek and in her ear. " _Tell me!_ "

 _Tear it to shreds, you lying little_ whore …

 _Nothing_ —

" _I don't know!_ "

It was only when she screamed the words that Malys realized she was crying. Tolfdir immediately came up to put a comforting arm around her, and he rounded on Lucius with undisguised anger.

"Now look what you've done!" he cried. "Have you no sense of tact or shame? Would you be little more than a common bully to satisfy your mistress? It's perfectly clear this poor woman has no idea what you're talking about!"

If Lucius was at all moved by Malys' display of emotion, he didn't show any sign at all, other than his heavy, barely controlled breathing. "She is being deliberately uncooperative," he said. "And you, Master Wizard, are treading a very dangerous line. Your Arch-Mage has ordered me to escort you back to your College, that they might begin their own investigation regarding _her_."

The wizened Nord straightened a little at this, clearly surprised.

"As for myself," Lucius went on, still taking heaving breaths, "I am not persuaded. There are too many unknowns, all of which will yield no proof whatsoever if we continue to bicker like unruly children. Fortunately, I have a more … _definitive_ way to separate the un-life from the living."

He reached into his robe, and drew out a shining sword. It looked a little short for a man his size, but he still looked as though he could use it. The guard was perfectly round, and almost nonexistent against the wide, sizzling blade; in its center, suspended in midair between the blade and the handle, was a blinding orb of light.

"This is Dawnbreaker," Lucius said reverently. "An ebony blade bathed in the light of the Colored Rooms, where Meridia makes her realm, and which burns away all manner of corruption and false life."

The mages immediately tensed up, and flames licked Tolfdir's hands. "Now you go too far!" he declared. "You will not kill her simply to prove that you were right all along!"

"I don't intend to kill her," Lucius said simply, raising the blade level with Malys' neck, but keeping it a good six inches away. The Dunmer did not find anything about his words or actions relaxing. "If she has been cured, or was never affected at all, then she will be unscathed. But if the foul taint of the Volkihar lies in her blood—or indeed, that of any other of their breed … well, _that_ punishment is not mine to give," he shrugged.

He raised the light below the blade to his lips. "May Meridia's radiance cleanse you … "

Suddenly, that light blossomed into a beacon that shone like the sun. An eerie, glowing energy rushed along the blade, lengthening into a second, larger blade more appropriate for a broadsword.

" … body, mind, and soul," Lucius intoned. He twirled Dawnbreaker effortlessly, and _sliced_.

Malys only had time to register the mages' cries of disbelief before the ethereal blade passed through her neck like it wasn't even there. A force like a hot, blunt knife followed in its wake, and she staggered to the ground in shock.

The first thing she noticed as she hit the stone floor was that she felt the impact, first on her back, and then her head. The second thing she noticed was that this meant the nerves in her spine had not been compromised by the blade, meaning she felt every bit of that painful blunt-knife force traveling through her body, which in turn meant—

_I'm … not dead?_

Quickly as her aching body could let her, she clambered up to her feet. Lucius was staring at her with an odd look on his face, like a heavy weight had just been swung into it. The rest of the mages, and every single one of the guards as well, were dividing their attention between him and Malys with the same look of bewilderment.

"You are clean," Lucius finally declared, though it was clear that even he didn't want to believe his own words. But Malys could see the gears turning in his head; she knew as well as he did that to contradict the verdict of a Daedric Prince was tantamount to blasphemy. There was only one thing he could do now.

"Stand down," he said to the guards, who promptly sheathed their weapons—some more reluctantly than others. Malys let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

Tolfdir had recovered from the shock, and now looked very angry indeed. "Well, I hope you're satisfied," he snapped, brushing off his robes as he glared at Lucius. "The Arch-Mage will be informed of this harassment. And there will be no further investigation into this matter, I can promise you that—on our end, _or_ on yours!"

He turned to the mages. "We're leaving for Merryfair Farm," he said, without any trace of his former geniality and bluster. "We'll take the first carriage from Riften at dawn … and I think it would be best if we avoided any more _unwelcome distractions_ during our journey," he added, looking behind his shoulder at Lucius, who still hadn't moved from his spot, and was gazing from Malys to Dawnbreaker and back again in a strange way.

"Come along, then," Tolfdir said quietly, a little more calm and gentle now, "before Meridia's 'faithful priest' has another half-baked reason to hold us here."

And on that note, the five mages set on their return journey. The sun had already set by the time Rkund disappeared from view, but none of them wanted to risk a look back at the shrinking speck that was Lucius.

Though she had no doubt that everyone was at least incredibly confused about all the things that had transpired today, Malys' thoughts were in especial turmoil—and her brush with death was only the least reason for this.

She didn't want to talk about her sudden lapse of memory with Tolfdir. For one thing, he would probably dismiss it as a result of the pressure from Lucius. And while that was true—to a point—Malys was less and less sure about how 'sudden' this loss of memory really was.

The loss was not a complete one, thankfully; while she had been frantically dredging for something to remember, the taste of the hackle-lo ash yams her mother loved to serve had appeared on her tongue, as fresh as if she'd just downed a whole steaming plateful of them. She remembered Skyrim, too; she remembered the snow and biting cold, a sharp contrast to the hell that Morrowind was now—

 _And_ she remembered Windhelm.

_"Go back under the ash where you belong!"_

She shivered. First, there had been Gjavar, that bandit from the other day, and that … _thing_ inside her. Now there had been this blackout in her memory, and that thing was talking to her now? Malys failed to repress a shudder.

 _What is_ happening _to me?_

The question never left Malys' mind, even as they reached Merryfair Farm and pitched their bedrolls for the night, or even as she lay there under the stars, her red eyes wide open in fear, refusing to shut for an instant.

* * *

_Outside Fort Kastav_

"Malys, you look awful."

Sunlight crept over the mountaintops as the mages' carriage traveled over the road to Winterhold at a fair clip (Tolfdir had paid the driver extra to go double time). The Dunmer had woken to Cosette sneaking glances under her hood, and the Breton was looking at her with an unusual amount of concern.

Malys knew Cosette was right—she had slept very little last night, and very badly. She had dreamed Gjavar had returned with some friends and abducted her in her sleep. She'd woken up in Windhelm, inside an alley within the Grey Quarter, surrounded by narrow, burning eyes and fanged mouths that screamed curses and threats at her in the same voice she always imagined the "other Malys" to speak in. She had tried to escape the city, but the faceless, roiling mob had cornered her at every turn. Then it had solidified into the emotionless, ghostly face of Lucius, whose jaws—complete with hundreds of miniature Dawnbreakers for teeth—closed in around her, the blades piercing her flesh like needles. She had woken with a start, and had failed to get any more sleep until after they'd boarded the carriage at dawn.

"Tolfdir thought you were having a seizure," Cosette said grimly, after Malys had given an—albeit filtered—summary of her dream. "I thought he was going to paralyze you. For your own health," she added hastily as Malys became alarmed.

"It was just a dream," she shrugged— _oh, if wishes were fishes_ , she thought ruefully. "Maybe once we get back to Winterhold, I can take a nice, long nap.

"Speaking of, where are we?" She yawned, stretching her arms as wide as she could—sleeping in armor was extremely uncomfortable, even if it was mer-made. The air was cold, and she felt snowflakes on her face. "Are we close to the College?"

"It'll be a while," Vinye answered from further up the wagon. "We passed Windhelm an hour ago—we'll be going through Kastav Pass soon. From there, it's a near straight shot back to Winterhold."

Malys exhaled. "That makes me feel a lot better," she said truthfully. "Those Stormcloaks weren't acting suspicious about us at all, were they, Vinye?"

The Altmer didn't answer.

"Vinye?"

Malys frowned, and looked at the front of the carriage. Vinye was not there; and she saw Tolfdir and J'zargo looking over the edge of the wagon. Both looked deeply concerned. Malys followed their lead—and puzzlement gave way to complete shock.

Vinye was sprinting alongside the cart, her long legs keeping her almost neck-and-neck with the carthorse's gait. Malys only saw her face for a split second; there was a grim determination in her green eyes and dead-set jaw, and no indication that the cart or its occupants existed to her. A burst of athleticism that Malys would never have expected from the high elf suddenly chose that moment to appear, and Vinye slowly pulled away from the cart.

Malys followed the road, and saw three humanoid forms in the distance, coming up in the opposite direction. They did not appear to be aware of anything out of the ordinary—least of all aware of Vinye, who as far as Malys could tell was heading straight for them.

"What in the world is she doing?" Tolfdir mused out loud.

His answer came in the form of a violent battle cry from Vinye, whose body was beginning to glow blue—followed by more magickal lightning than Malys had ever remembered seeing in her life. Lightning bolts flew in every direction; some of them hit the carriage, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere and scaring the carthorse to a skidding halt.

And in the thick of it, Malys could see Vinye locked in a battle to the death with the three figures, who—now that she had a closer look—were all high elves, wearing polished armor not unlike her own. One of them was already dead, his corpse cooling rapidly in a pile of snow.

Meanwhile, Vinye was turning and twisting like a miniature tornado, never stopping for a moment to catch her breath, or to give in to the thrill of killing, like the other Malys had done three days ago. No—what Malys was witnessing must have been familiar territory to Vinye; as they drew closer, she could see she was wearing the same impassive face as before. It was nothing short of a one-sided massacre—no, it was more than that, she thought.

It was _routine_.

She'd done this before, Malys realized—somehow, she knew how these elves fought, knew their strengths and weaknesses, their attacks and defenses; and Vinye knew how to exploit them all.

Lightning coiled around her hands like twin whips, now, thrashing this way and that without any care what they hit—or _who_ , apparently, as Malys hastily ducked a bolt that sailed inches over her head. Another bolt ripped through a second elf's chest, reducing his heart to cinders in a mere moment.

With one last war cry, Vinye released a final blast of lightning from each hand. The bolts sailed in opposite directions, reduced the trees they bounced off to kindling, and electrocuted the last, luckless elf behind her. He toppled to the road, and the dagger that fell from his dead fingers clanged noisily on the stones.

There was absolute silence as the odor of charred flesh mixed with a dry, musty scent that smelled familiar to Malys: it was the same scent she had smelled that first night in the College—the scent of a thunderstorm.

No one wanted to say anything, especially not since Vinye was walking back to the carriage, as calmly as though this massacre had never even taken place. The Altmer took her seat, and took several deep, even breaths before she finally spoke.

"I would … _really_ appreciate it if you never mentioned this to _anyone_ ," she said to the group, as the carriage began to move again.

"What in the blazes was that all about?" hollered the driver.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Vinye snapped. "They're dead—they don't know anything now," she added under her breath.

Cosette peered over the carriage at one of the bodies. Her eyes widened. "Those were Thalmor Justiciars," she said, turning back to look accusingly at Vinye. "You'd better damn well believe we're worried."

Thalmor—the word stirred something in Malys' memory. "Those elves were with the Aldmeri Dominion?" she gasped.

The Justiciars were the enforcers of the Dominion, far off in the Summerset Isle. Arrogant and supremacist—and in the eyes of some Nords, genocidal—they were believed to be the true instigators behind the Stormcloak Rebellion, according to High King Varulf. Even before that insurrection, though, they had very few supporters in Skyrim.

But the fact remained that no one was enough of an idiot to threaten even one of the Thalmor with lethal force, let alone three. Malys was still looking wild-eyed at Vinye with this in mind.

"What is it with you and the Thalmor?" she asked, the encounter with that wood elf and that one town guard coming back to her. "Did they—" Malys paused here, uncertain of how to politely phrase this, " _get to_ your family? Is that why you're here, all by yourself?"

Vinye inclined her head, and Malys was surprised to see her green eyes swimming with tears. "No," Vinye said. Her voice was hard as a diamond. "You don't want to know what they did."

Malys recoiled at the forcefulness in Vinye's words.

"I don't know how long you've been in Skyrim," the Altmer continued. "I don't know if you take the words of the Nords at face value. But you probably hear them talk about the Thalmor—how oppressively they treat anyone who believes in nine Divines instead of eight, how they think Nords are nothing but diseased beasts to be put down."

She looked Malys in the eye. "And if you think they're exaggerating," she said, leaning far too close to her for comfort, "then you're _wrong_. Because the same thing happened in Alinor when they came to power, and it was still going on when I left for Tamriel. I _know_ what the Thalmor are truly capable of—because I was there to _see it_."

She returned to her resting position to blank stares from Malys and Cosette. The two mages exchanged looks with one another, and Malys shrugged.

_Might as well …_

"I don't like the Nords," the Dunmer said, "and I don't particularly care what they think about the Thalmor—or what they think about anything else, for that matter. Their _thoughts_ were enough to run me out of Windhelm a long time ago. I'm still not sure why they did it," she said—

You _aren't—but_ I _am_.

 _Oh, be quiet, you fetcher_.

—"I mean, they probably just didn't want any more dark elves in their city, for all I know … but one thing's for sure: I can never go back to Windhelm."

Vinye looked wounded. "Is that why you wanted to take the long way around the city?" she asked, referring to the first leg of their trek through Skyrim.

Malys nodded.

"And the armor—?"

She nodded again. "Like I said, you can never be too careful."

Both of them now turned to Cosette, who at first was taken aback by their expectant stares. "What?"

"Don't tell me you don't have anything to share with us," Malys said. "Go on—it can't be any worse than what we just shared, right?"

Cosette smiled daringly, and for a moment Malys wondered if she was about to eat her words. "There's not much to tell, really," she sighed. "I like the Nords about as much as the both of you, really. I lived in Markarth up until a few years ago, after the Stormcloaks took control of the city. There were a lot of changes made, I'll tell you what—some more deserved than others.

"See, the new Jarl—Thongvor Silver-Blood—was a ruthless leader. He had the guards detain anyone he suspected of being with the Forsworn, and everyone they came across got clapped in irons and thrown in Cidhna Mine beneath the city. Even the women and children weren't safe. I remember I saw a girl in there that couldn't have been more than ten—and there she was, swinging a pickaxe and chipping that goddamned silver out of the rocks."

"You _saw_ her?" Vinye frowned. " … Then you got arrested, too?"

Cosette nodded. "Mm-hm. Trumped-up assault charge. I was a Breton—a _half-blood_ —and I knew that was enough reason for those racists to grab me. I knew if I protested, they'd kill me then and there. So I backed down, I did my time; when they let me out, I left Markarth for good—and it'll take more than all the septims in the world to make me go back."

Malys was surprised at Cosette's admission, if only pleasantly. This certainly explained why she tended to act so tough—or even outright hostile—around everyone else. The details inside the mine were less pleasant—Malys had no idea how anyone, even a Jarl, could brush off what amounted to child labor and false imprisonment.

Vinye, on the other hand … Malys shook her head. The way she had reacted to those Thalmor had invited more questions than answers. While Malys hadn't heard that much about them personally, she had to wonder if Vinye had really been telling the truth about how they acted around everyone else.

At any rate, the wind and cold of Skyrim seemed the _least_ harsh thing about the province now.

* * *

_Winterhold_

The carriage was silent for the remainder of the trip. Most of the passengers were visibly anxious to disembark—Malys in particular had sprung from the cart the moment the horse had stopped as though a giant had punted her off. She was halfway to the ramp leading up to the College before anyone else had even dismounted.

Vinye was the last to leave; though she would not admit it to her friends, the encounter with the Thalmor had deeply disturbed her, more than the vitriolic Bosmer or that guard from Riften. It was the suddenness of it all more than anything. One moment, she had seen their characteristic golden armor and midnight blue cloaks; the next, she had felt that same desperate urge as before—as with all the other times before.

 _I wonder if they knew me_.

Her eyes stung, and she smelled smoke from the torchlight of a passing guard. She shook her head, trying to clear it—she could hear that infernal voice again, and the sounds of explosions and screaming.

 _They can't know me_ , she thought frantically. _They mustn't—not now, not ever!_

_I don't exist to them. I never did._

"Vinye!" Tolfdir called, from one of the magickal fountains lining the bridge to the College. Another snowstorm was about to move in from the north. "Come along, my dear—you'll have some time to rest after we see the Arch-Mage. Quickly, now—before you catch cold!"

The wind was fast becoming too loud for Vinye to answer back. She waved in response, pulled her robes closer together to fend off the cold, and started across the bridge before the biting gusts grew strong enough to blow her off the precipice.

The winds howled louder, and echoed all around her. She could barely see Tolfdir and J'zargo ahead of her, motioning at her frantically to come inside. But the bridge—even if it was reinforced by ancient magics, so the rumors went—was still half crumbled, and against the massive outcrop of rock that the College of Winterhold was built upon, the narrow bridge might as well be a thread.

The wind howled louder still. A rime of frost was beginning to coat her face.

But something was wrong—the wind was coming directly from her left. Why, then, did it sound like it was coming from directly _behind_ her?

She glanced at Tolfdir once more. He, and J'zargo as well, looked properly terrified even through all the blowing snow—and now, Vinye was starting to feel the same way. She risked a quick look backward—

—and regretted it immediately when she saw the dragon _right there_.

Forgetting the cold, forgetting Tolfdir and J'zargo, and forgetting the College, Vinye stood there with her mouth half open, frozen to the stone floor in terror. The great beast was hovering barely a house's length away, and was already so close to her that she could see the individual purple scales on its monstrous, triangular head. Eight beady yellow eyes the size of apples—four on each side of its reptilian snout—blinked at her with malicious intent.

One ancient, long-lived species surveyed another for a few seconds longer. Then, as the dragon reared back—bluish-purple vapor spilling from its jaws—Vinye turned and ran.

She did not hear the deafening thunderclap as the dragon expelled a bluish-purple wave of energy at her, nor did see it—and neither did she care. All she wanted to do was outrun the dragon—outrun the same living hell that had nearly killed her not two days ago. She did not feel her lungs bursting with every ragged breath she took, or her soles aching with every step.

She didn't even feel the force of the energy blast exploding behind her, the force of the impact effortlessly carrying her upward like a ragdoll and into J'zargo's arms, crushing the Khajiit against the gate and forcing it open with a harsh scraping noise. Even as her body skidded to a halt on the stone pathway, her legs were still running in place for a few moments afterward.

 _Not again_ , she kept thinking over and over, panic clouding her vision. _Not again not again not again_ —

BOOM.

The earth heaved beneath her feet, and she heard a deafening _crack_ above her—the dragon must have landed on the battlements above her head. Bits of stone fell to the courtyard.

" _Wo faal Dovahkiin?_ " bellowed the dragon, as more panicked students and staff fled indoors. " _Daar sul feyn se Alduin qahnaaraan_."

Vinye just stood there, too scared to even tremble. She heard Faralda's voice far off in the distance, shouting at her to get to safety. But though she tried as hard as she was able, she could not turn herself away from the sight.

And then, another voice—louder than the dragon, and louder than the storm—shouted above them all.

" _Strun … Bah QO!_ "

Immediately, the weather around them changed. The air became warmer, more humid. The snow became a trickle of rain—then a shower, and within seconds a full-blown downpour. Bolts of lightning, far more powerful than the pitiful sparks Vinye could produce, crackled in the air, striking everything within range.

One particularly large jolt struck the dragon, burning a hole through its wing as wide around as a barrel. The monster roared; whether in pain or anger, Vinye did not know.

The dragon took to the air again as one electrical blast after another pummeled its scaly hide. " _Mey_ ," it rumbled. " _Vus ni uth naal nunon joor. Lok … Vah KOOR!"_

There was another clap of thunder. The rain slowed to a light drizzle, eventually stopping entirely, and the stormy skies rapidly dissipated. The sun's rays broke through the clouds, bathing the College in light and warmth.

" _Zu'u ni krif kaal jul!_ " roared the dragon, its scaly wings—wide enough to span the entire courtyard—spreading to their fullest extent, casting a shadow over the entire College. " _Fen krif kinbok se dovah!_ "

The other voice spoke again. " _Mul … Qah DIIV!_ " A bright yellow light engulfed the tower where the figure stood, obscuring him and blinding Vinye.

" _Qo … Nah ZAAN!_ " More sapphire-colored energy gathered within the beast's jaws; unlike the smoky substance that had nearly killed Vinye moments ago, this was more akin to her own lightning magic—though even before she saw the dragon release that energy in a narrow, destructive beam, she knew that _this_ lightning was undoubtedly more powerful than even the bolts that had rained down from the sky mere minutes ago.

So when she saw a second, identical ray of electricity blasting from the tower, slamming into the dragon's lightning breath right over the font in the center of the courtyard, and sending shockwaves reverberating throughout the courtyard, she was immediately transfixed at the sight. She forgot how fearful the dragon had caused her to feel.

This was not like that mountain climb at all, she realized. This was not one dragon against another dragon—it was one dragon against one man.

And so far as she could tell, they were evenly matched.

But the dragon's lightning attack was slowly winning. Whoever was controlling its twin must have noticed this; the flow of electricity stopped, leaving the dragon's attack free to bombard the parapet, turning the battlements to dust in the wind.

 _No!_ Vinye thought.

" _Nikriin_ ," spat the dragon, as it climbed higher into the air. " _Fent ni filok_."

And then it dived, raising its wings behind its head and dropping like a stone. Vinye tried to turn and run, but the dragon had already landed in the courtyard, its heavy claws destroying the statue in front of the fountain. The monster lowered its head, and Vinye belatedly realized _it was looking right at her_.

" _Krosis_ ," the beast murmured in a low growl. It inclined its head only a little, and the Altmer, in some corner of her mind that wasn't stone cold petrified, instinctively realized it was talking to her. " _Ni krif, fahliil."_

Cobalt-tinted energy gathered in its jaws again, and Vinye felt her hair standing on end. "But you are in the way."

Vinye gasped. _It can speak Cyrodiilic, too?!_

" _Fus …_ "

And just when Vinye was certain she was about to die a painful death, several things happened at once.

First, a purplish sphere erupted directly beside her—but there was no atronach or familiar inside it. Instead, there was a man wearing stately blue robes and a heavy black mask over his face. Spectral golden spikes covered his head, arms and upper torso like ghostly armor. He was strikingly tall—almost matching Vinye inch for inch—but the Altmer felt a raw power about him that she found intimidating.

 _" … Ro …_ "

" _Tiid … Klo UL!_ " bellowed the man. His body glowed briefly blue, but nothing else appeared to happen. Still, Vinye had seen and heard enough to grasp the meaning of this, and it left her stupefied.

_Is he speaking the dragon's language? Can he actually understand it?_

The man in the gray mask— _gray?_ Vinye wondered. _I thought it was black just a moment ago!_ —was moving so fast he appeared blurred around the edges. In the span of a single second, he had opened not one, but _two_ portals into Oblivion. A golden, translucent wyrm as thick around as his arm slithered from each of these, and took up positions flush with each of the mage's hands as they balled into fists.

Vinye gaped. _Is he—?_

_" … DAH!"_

Her question was immediately answered as the mage assumed what must have been some kind of fighting stance (was it her imagination, or had his mask now turned from gray to _green_ right before her eyes?). Seconds later, he had punched the air with a right uppercut, and the rightmost wyrm had leapt out like he'd released a child's toy kite—and actually _headbutted_ the monster in the jaw, hard enough to make it stumble a few feet backward. The burst of energy that had been building up in the dragon's mouth exploded harmlessly into the air.

Vinye mentally pardoned her Cyrodiilic, but she had to admit—that was gods-damned _awesome_.

The mage made a left jab, and _that_ wyrm rushed forward and caught the dragon in its ribcage _hard_ , sending it crashing against the Hall of the Elements. A right jab hit it even harder, enough to rattle the large window above the beast.

Finally, the mage reached out with both hands, and the wyrms stretched the length of the courtyard, burying their ethereal jaws inside the dragon's flesh, and wrapping their slender bodies around its neck. Then the mage _twisted_ his arms and lower back and spun around, like he was parrying with a broadsword.

The wyrms _twisted_ with him.

The next sound an astounded Vinye heard was the bone-jarring _snap_ of the dragon's spine as the monster's head was forcibly rotated in a half-circle. The dragon made a horrible gurgling noise, twitched violently, and fell limply to the entryway with an earth-shaking THUD.

Vinye tottered up to the mage's side; words had failed the Altmer completely. "I-Is it dead?" she stammered.

 _No_ , she recanted, J'zargo's words echoing in her mind. _Only the Dragonborn can truly kill a drag—_

Her eyes widened, as the pieces of that puzzle slowly began to fit together.

_It can't be …_

The mage held up a gloved hand, and Vinye immediately stopped where she stood. The mask (a rusty-looking brown now instead of the bright green before) shook his head very imperceptibly.

" _Krifaan voth zin_ ," Vinye heard him say under his breath. " _Ziil gro jul ulse. Zu'u fen draal bormahu Akatosh—dovah kos sahrot laas, ahrk dovah kos sahrot dinok._ " He raised his arms outward in the dragon's direction, as if he was preparing to embrace an old friend. " _Lok, Thu'um_."

Vinye stared wild-eyed as the dragon's scaly body suddenly erupted into flames. Within seconds, the flesh of the monster had been consumed, leaving only a glowing skeleton. But the light was fading from their bones; more than that, Vinye could see—it was actually rushing towards the mage, whose body was now glowing a similar color.

Between the hushed speech and the way the dragon's body had been set ablaze the way it did, Vinye suspected she had just witnessed a very intimate encounter here, as the light from the dragon's remains wove around the mage's body and finally disappeared inside him. This had been more than a battle of survival, she surmised. It had been a display of power—a challenge for dominance—and the dragon had lost.

Only when the mage's body had stopped glowing did he finally move a muscle. The masked face bowed slightly, and Vinye wondered if that was sorrow she was sensing from him.

"He is dead," the mage said reverently.

And so it was that Vinye met Grimnir Torn-Skull: the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, and the Last Dragonborn.


	6. V

V

" _The Dragonborn is Arch-Mage of Winterhold?!_ "

Vinye could barely keep her voice below the strained whisper it was now as she interrogated J'zargo en route to the Hall of Elements. "Why didn't you say anything about this before?"

"J'zargo tried," said the Khajiit. "Three days ago, when we passed Mzulft. But those bandits did not let me finish."

Vinye remembered the ambush, and cursed herself for not asking him about it again.

"At any rate," J'zargo went on, "the Last Dragonborn is retired. He has been to planes of Oblivion where this one would never dare set his paw, and he has gained knowledge that the greatest of wizards would spend lifetimes searching for. Khajiit believes the Arch-Mage has earned his quiet and his peace after his life of adventure, and so he says nothing more on the matter." He nodded once at Vinye, his fur-lined face unusually stern.

"Why does he wear a mask?" Vinye blurted out, before she could stop herself.

J'zargo arched his brow. "The Arch-Mage does not wear any ordinary masks," he said cleverly. "He wears the phylacteries of the high priest-kings of the Dragon Cult—the men and women who devoted themselves to the World-Eater Alduin and his ilk."

Vinye knew of Alduin, and had heard word of his downfall like everyone else that called Tamriel home.

But something else had grabbed her attention. She was no expert on necromancy, nor did she wish to be, but she knew a phylactery was an object that a sorcerer could use to store his soul, thereby making the sorcerer immortal—and quite powerful as well. "Phylacteries," she mused. "So there's more than the one he wears?"

J'zargo laughed as they entered the Hall, and opened the door to the Arch-Mage's quarters. "How many there are, this one does not know. But he has eight that J'zargo knows of."

That surprised Vinye even more. "Really? I thought he just had the one, and that it … changed colors," she trailed off, feeling more foolish with every word she said.

J'zargo grinned. "Ah. That is Khajiit magic. Perhaps if J'zargo sees you as a competent mage, he will teach you as he once taught it to the Dragonborn, hmm?"

 _In other words, simple sleight-of-hand_ , Vinye thought with a wry smile. Still, she mused further, she could sense J'zargo had a very high opinion of the Arch-Mage—and she suspected the reverse was true as well, if a Nord of all people was willing to be taught the tricks of a Khajiit. The sheer irony of such a situation was almost amusing.

Yet the Arch-Mage's power—the Dragonborn's power—was undeniable. And only an hour ago, in that brief minute before the Dragonborn had exited the courtyard and into the Hall of Elements, Vinye had seen this power for herself.

And, for a very dark moment, she wondered what he could have done to a mere mortal like her.

She fought the urge to shiver.

* * *

Malys was grateful to be out of her beat-up elven armor. It breathed well enough, but the high collar of the cuirass made it very difficult to turn her neck, which she had been doing ever since she'd stepped into Grimnir's quarters.

The space was almost as enormous as the Hall itself. A sizable garden occupied the center of the room, lit by floating mage-lights and dominated by a single large tree. To Malys' right lay an assortment of soul gems and an enchanting table. One of these she recognized as a black soul gem, and she shuddered at the thought that a person's soul might very well be living inside it right now. On her left was a laboratory filled with enough ingredients to make any alchemist happy—the table next to her even had a whole tureen of what was labeled as vampire dust. Lucius' face swam in her vision briefly, and she glared at the flaky gray substance, wishing it would burst into flame.

Before her was Arch-Mage Grimnir, who presently wore an old, rusting mask over the robes that signified his position. Tolfdir was in the middle of presenting his report to him, and while Grimnir's face was unreadable, his tone and actions were far from it at the moment.

"Damn that priest!" he growled beneath his mask. "I should have known he'd try to find some way to go over my head. I hope he wasn't _too_ drastic with you."

A few seconds passed by before Malys realized Grimnir was addressing her specifically. "Oh—well," she stammered, "I'm a little … shaken, yes. But nothing serious," she amended hastily; Malys decided it might be better not to mention Lucius' sword—Dawnbreaker, or whatever he had called it.

"I'm glad to hear it—you have my word that he will no longer be welcome inside College grounds," Grimnir said, gracious but perfunctory at the same time.

The mask turned back to Tolfdir. "You say this Solyn may be looking for Kagrenac's Tools?"

"Not specifically," replied the Master Wizard. "He wanted to seal away as many artifacts of the Dwemer as possible. He called it his way of honoring them."

"Hmm. I'd like to call it consolidating power," Grimnir mused. "This isn't the first time someone's used the dwarves' creations to achieve their own goals. The Synod Council's presence in Mzulft has not gone unnoticed, and there are rumors that the College of Whispers has turned its focus on Avanchnzel, far to the south. Even we are guilty of hoarding their power to some extent."

Tolfdir cleared his throat. "I was under the impression we weren't to talk about that incident," he said cautiously, looking at the novices uneasily, and back to Grimnir with a very odd expression.

Malys saw the mask tilt imperceptibly backward, and she imagined the eyes beneath it were looking towards the back of the chamber, past a partition separating the garden from the rest of the quarters.

She frowned. What was the College trying to hide?

For some reason, she found herself looking at the vampire dust again. There was something about it, she recalled; it was used in potions, and valued in covert operations, so she was told—but to what effect? Malys hadn't studied enough alchemy to know for sure, and while she knew it must enhance a vampire's abilities in some way, being accused as one did not make her keen to explore that particular subject any further.

And yet, she was certainly keen on answering that one nagging question …

Grimnir coughed, bringing her back to reality. "Yes, well—at any rate, it would take time to search for such powerful artifacts, no matter how much assistance Solyn might have in that regard."

Malys sidled closer to the table with the vampire dust while Grimnir talked. A daring idea had just taken root in her mind, and she hoped what little skill she had in sleight-of-hand and illusion would be enough to suffice.

"You're suggesting we help him, then?" Tolfdir asked.

"J'zargo is not so sure." The Khajiit looked anxious, and the tip of his tail was twitching. "It may be more prudent to keep these artifacts someplace where we know they are safe."

No one noticed Malys surreptitiously dip her hand in the dust, scoop out a handful behind her back, and dump it into her pocket. She sighed. _That's the easy part_ , she thought, edging her way back to the rest of the group.

"As much as I'd like to agree with you, J'zargo," Grimnir said, "remember that the College is an independent institution—unlike the Synod and the College of Whispers. If we attracted too much attention by gathering so many powerful artifacts together, then we'd be inserting ourselves into their own arms race. Better that we keep our heads down as much as possible. Although," he added, "we must be mindful to our own future as well."

He nodded at the novices. "You may go," he said to them. "I would suggest that you speak with Urag down in the Arcaneum at your earliest convenience. He can provide you with any information you need on the Dwemer and their artifacts."

The three mages nodded, and headed towards the stairway that led to the College's main library.

* * *

Vinye had dealt with Urag gro-Shub once before; the Orc had been initially distrustful of her—especially since she had chosen his library to hide in after her botched summoning of that storm atronach. After a stern talking-to, though, the two mages had discovered a mutual predilection for knowledge and literature, and Vinye had agreed to make her errs up to Urag in secret: he would have her reshelf any books and scrolls left behind and reorganize the stacks as well, and in return, she could peruse whatever books caught her eye.

Nevertheless, having such an unlikely friend within the College didn't change the fact that Urag was the most intimidating librarian she had ever met. Nor did it help that the Orc pretended not to know of their little arrangement, and greeted the high elf with his trademark scowl.

"This is my library," he grunted. "My own little slice of Oblivion. I don't care if you're the Arch-Mage himself—one toe out of line, and you'll get to see how angry an atronach _really_ is." He looked pointedly at Vinye, who couldn't resist a shudder. Urag was nothing, if not a master keeper of secrets.

Cosette scoffed. "First a cat for a master instructor, and now an Orc for the librarian?" she said with mock incredulity. "Next, you'll tell me one of the Arch-Mages was a sodding Sload."

Urag chuckled mirthlessly. "Nearly. But that was a hundred years before your time," he huffed. "Now, are you looking for something, or are you going to test my patience?"

Cosette shrugged. "You're the bookworm," she said airily to Vinye, and sauntered off to one of the nearby tables, leaving the Altmer alone with Urag.

"We're looking for books on Dwemer artifacts," Vinye said calmly. "Anything you can spare would do just fine."

Urag growled. "I thought you might," he said. "News travels fast around here. The sound echoes off the stone—in a place as quiet as my library, you tend to hear things one might not want to be heard."

He reached below his desk, and pulled out several tomes. "Here," he said, handing a particularly dusty one to Vinye. " _Tamrielic Lore_ —written by Yagrum Bagarn: the last living dwarf."

Vinye was shocked. "The last _living_ Dwemer?!" she whispered. "How is that possible?"

Urag gave a noncommittal shrug. "I never asked," he said. "Yagrum was … somewhere. Adventuring in some far-off pocket of Oblivion, I heard. He wasn't on Nirn when all the dwarves disappeared, and that's why he didn't go with them."

Vinye considered this. "I'll have to have a talk with him—what better person to ask about dwarven relics than an actual dwarf?"

"Hah! Good luck with that," Urag sneered. "Poor sod took ill with Corprus the moment he came back—nothing but a bloated, gibbering fool now. He's in no shape to tell you anything, even if he wanted to."

 _Well, that's_ that _plan dead in the water_ , Vinye sighed.

Urag handed her a silver-bound book. This one looked much more recent. "Something else you might like," he said tersely. " _The Aetherium Wars_. Got a pristine first-edition copy earlier this year. It's going to stay that way, too, understand?"

"Not one drop of mead," Vinye smiled. She placed the two books in her satchel.

"Is that all, then? I have my own work to do," Urag said.

Vinye looked around, checking that no one else was within earshot. "Actually—" she began, and frowned.

Malys was nowhere to be seen. That was strange, Vinye thought; she thought the Dunmer had arrived at the Arcaneum with herself and Cosette. She shrugged—perhaps she'd turned in early for the day. It had been a tumultuous few days for her; that much was clear. Plus, she thought, Malys not being around made things easier.

"Actually, I'd like to ask a favor," she said, her thoughts returning to business. It was high time she started looking for answers to more puzzling questions than the disappearance of the dwarves and the location of their artifacts. "I can put in some extra time here, clean out the stacks, anything you need—I just need you to look into a couple things for me."

Urag's scowl deepened further. "And what would these things be?"

Vinye told him.

Once she was finished, Urag was no longer scowling, but was looking at Vinye with an inquisitive expression that he clearly did not use often. "Well, now. That's a first," he said. "This on your own time?"

Vinye thought of Malys. "Let's just say I'd like to avoid any questions for the time being."

Urag grumbled under his breath, thinking Vinye's proposition over in his head. Finally, he coughed gruffly.

"Fine," he grunted. "I might have some contacts in Morrowind I can check in with. But this is no ordinary favor you're asking me—so you'll have to do a lot more than clean spiders out of my stacks before I can call us even." He reached under his desk, and produced a small cube about six inches high that pulsed with a dim blue light. The telltale crest of the Dwemer was emblazoned on all six sides.

"Arch-Mage Grimnir gave this to me a while back. Told me I could do what I wanted with it—lock it up, or sell it, even chuck it in the Sea of Ghosts for all he cared. When he told me what it was, I asked him if Sheogorath had mixed the last pint of mead he drank."

Vinye poked the innocent-looking chunk of metal with a cautious finger. "And … what is it?"

"A damn good paperweight," Urag smirked. "But more to the point, it's a Dwarven lexicon. A thousand Arcaneums could fit into one tiny corner of this little beauty. How they did it, I don't know, and the Dwemer certainly aren't going to tell anyone." He chuckled darkly. "The dwarves used this particular lexicon to store the knowledge of an Elder Scroll."

Vinye's mouth fell open. _Is he serious—an actual Elder Scroll?!_ "And you were using this," she said in utter disbelief, "as a _paperweight_?"

"What good is the knowledge of all possible futures and all possible pasts if you don't even know the _language it's written in_?" snorted Urag. "I was only being practical!"

Vinye sighed. "Fair enough. So—what do you want me to do with this?"

"One of our scholars went out to the ice fields up north about a decade ago," said Urag. "Name of Septimus Signus. Brilliant mind—no one in the world knew more about the Elder Scrolls than he did—but he couldn't be social worth a damn. He was going after the Dwemer, too, funnily enough."

"Really?"

"He up and vanished one day—said he'd found one of their artifacts under the sea. Went missing for the longest time, and we all thought him dead up until the Arch-Mage ran across him a few years ago.

"Septimus wanted to study the knowledge of an Elder Scroll, but he's no Moth Priest—his mind wasn't developed enough. If he even glanced inside an actual Scroll, his mind would be cooked as a cabbage before he even knew it. So he looked for a workaround, and found one with the Dwemer—and apparently Grimnir helped him out.

"But living on his own for so long took its toll. Septimus' mind was half gone already by the time the Arch-Mage caught up with him, so I was told. Guess he didn't want all that knowledge wasted on a madman, so instead of bringing the lexicon back to him, Grimnir brought it back here." He patted the lexicon with a broad palm and a broader grin.

"And you want me to bring it back to this Septimus?" Vinye asked. She liked this proposition less and less by the minute. But perhaps this Septimus character knew more about Dwemer relics as well. In the end, she decided it might be better to bite the proverbial arrowhead, and she nodded. "All right, I'll see what I can do. You're sure he won't misuse it at all?"

"Aye," Urag said. "Truth be told, I don't see how anyone can use this thing now."

He pushed the lexicon to Vinye. The Altmer regarded the object a while longer, then wedged it into her satchel with some difficulty. _It'll do until I can fetch my pack_.

"I'll check back with you in a week or so," she told Urag. "I hope that'll be enough time for those contacts of yours."

Urag merely grunted, and Vinye turned back to return to Cosette.

"What was that all about?" the Breton asked idly, skimming a copy of _The Bear of Markarth_ with a bored look on her face.

"Just following a lead on this Dwemer project," Vinye half-lied. "Where's Malys?"

Cosette frowned. "Damned if I know," she shrugged. "Poor elf's probably curled up in bed, crying herself to sleep right now. Can't say I blame her—that priest was off his absolute nut."

As if to prove her wrong, one of the heavy oak doors creaked open, and Malys emerged. Immediately, Vinye could tell something was amiss: the Dunmer was moving unsteadily, like her knees had been locked into place. Her red eyes were bleary and wide as saucers, and her normally ashen face had lost all color to it. A slip of paper was clutched in her right hand, and her whole body was shaking violently.

"Where've you been?" Cosette chirped, flicking her eyes upward from her book.

Malys took a deep breath.

* * *

Once the Dunmer knew she was out of sight, she knew she'd only have a few seconds to put her plan in motion. It all hinged on that one handful of vampire dust that she had cupped in her hands. She took a deep breath, and poured the substance into her mouth, coughing slightly.

There was a flash of purple light, and Malys' heart jumped when she saw her hands—indeed, her whole body, robes and all—vanish from view. The only indication that she was there was a faint ripple effect.

 _No wonder this stuff's used in stealth potions_ , Malys thought. She'd had a huge stroke of luck by ingesting the vampire dust. But time was of the essence—vampire dust was not the same as an invisibility potion, which meant she couldn't waste any more time frolicking about.

As quietly as possible, then, she cast a muffling spell towards her feet. Her boots were already soft and padded enough, but she wasn't about to take any chances. Then, she made her way back into Grimnir's quarters.

"Savos Aren's father?" the Arch-Mage was saying. "And he told you this himself?"

Malys only barely caught a hint of puzzlement in his voice as she sneaked past him. Her footsteps were relaxed and measured: slow enough to not arouse suspicion, but mindful all the same of the limited time the combined effects of the muffling spell and the vampire dust had on her body.

"That he did," Tolfdir replied. "But you know how difficult Dunmer ancestry can be to corroborate outside of Morrowind. And Savos always preferred to keep the more personal aspects of his life to himself."

Malys exhaled a sigh of relief as she passed the partition that separated Grimnir's personal quarters; all three adults had been too engrossed in their conversation to notice the faint distortion slinking to the back of the chamber. Now, away from prying eyes, she began to take in the Arch-Mage's more personal refinements.

A double bed dominated the space; she poked a pillow with an invisible finger, and mouthed a silent "Wow" as she contemplated the number of birds that had been plucked to make such luxury possible. A trunk lay at the foot of the bed, large enough to fit her if she squeezed in. It opened silently, and with the touch of a finger, but Malys saw nothing but an assortment of staves.

Across from the bed was a safe, and above that a glass display case half as long again as her forearm. She readied her ice magic, intending to rust the lock to the safe the same way she had done with that set of doors in Rkund, when something in the display case caught her eye. She peered upward to get a closer look.

And froze in her tracks when she saw what was inside. She felt her body grow numb.

_Azura, give me strength …_

* * *

"The point is, we don't know how much of his story has been falsified, if any at all," said Grimnir. "We have no evidence to prove that this Solyn could be under the employ of another institution, and if we accused him of such, we would risk our neutral stance in Tamriel's political affairs."

"Still, it is a risk we cannot ignore," Tolfdir mused.

"And according to his letter," J'zargo chimed in, "we were only granted first rights to enter Rkund. This Solyn said nothing of paying for exclusives. Khajiit thinks there will be competition in finding these dwarven artifacts. We must act on this now, my friend!"

"E-excuse me?" A new voice piped up from behind them. The three mages turned.

A poorly-shaven man in a ragged hat and mismatched clothing strode into the chamber. The knapsack over his back identified him as a courier.

"What is it?" Grimnir asked warily. "Who sent you here?"

"I was told to give you this, sir," the courier recited, producing a scrap of parchment from his knapsack and putting it in Grimnir's palm. "It's for a Miss Cosette Ionsaithe. It sounded pretty urgent."

"Who is it from?" J'zargo asked, eyes narrowed.

The courier shrugged. "Not sure—I got it from a couple of people in brown robes and funny-looking tattoos. Looked like … fire coming from their mouth and their eyes."

The three mages shared a look of confusion. Wordlessly, Grimnir fished out a handful of septims from his pocket and gave them to the courier. "There's more where that came from if you wait a moment longer," he said. "I may need to deliver a message of my own soon."

He raised his voice. "But before I do that, Miss Malys, I'd like to know what you're doing back there!"

There was a yelp of surprise from behind the stone partition as Grimnir clicked his fingers once. One seconds later, a sphere of transitory purple fire erupted before him, revealing a very surprised Malys Aryon.

"How did you—?!" she shrieked, before falling utterly silent at the stern looks of Tolfdir, J'zargo, and the inscrutable mask of Grimnir.

That mask now turned to and fro. "Would you all please wait outside?" he addressed the others. His voice was even less revealing than his light-gray mask. "I'd like to have some words with this young lady."

* * *

Malys was so shocked by what had just happened that for a moment, she had entirely forgotten the magnitude of what she had just recently discovered. _How did he know I was there?!_

As J'zargo, Tolfdir, and the courier filed out of the room, she looked back up at Grimnir … and up. She realized that she was still in a crouching position, and hastily clambered to her feet. She gulped as the unmoving gray mask stared back at her.

"Now," Grimnir repeated evenly, "I'd like to know what you were doing back there."

Malys almost wished he'd shouted; she could feel her face blushing furiously red with guilt.

"I'd like to know how you managed to get your hands on _this_!" she spluttered, brandishing a dagger in front of Grimnir. The blade appeared to be made of pure blue crystal—and was too thick and blunt enough to have functioned as an efficient dagger. But Malys had recognized that blade as soon as she'd laid eyes on it, as well as the six spikes on the guard, the thinness of the hilt, and the crescent-moon shape that served as a pommel.

Without even thinking, she had swiped it from the display case, feeling slightly reckless as she did so—though not to the extent of touching the artifact with her bare hands, instead electing to use the sleeve of her robe. She had read the stories, and knew the mortal danger faced by anyone who wielded this dagger without proper protection.

"Keening," Grimnir said. Was it Malys' imagination, or was that _regret_ she was hearing in the Arch-Mage's voice? "Kagrenac used this blade in tandem with the hammer Sunder; Sunder would draw forth power from the Heart of Lorkhan, Keening would focus that power—"

"—and Wraithguard would protect him from dying from that power," Malys finished, a bit defiantly. "I read the stories … sir," she hastily added.

Grimnir looked at Malys' outstretched hand—or rather, the bunched-up sleeve that separated her bare hand from Keening. "I see." He reached out with his own hand; Malys saw he was not wearing any gloves.

Before she could say anything, that bare hand had grasped Keening by the blade. Not forcefully—but not gently, either. Malys was so surprised by this that she instinctively released her hold on the artifact, and stumbled back.

"Be careful with that!" she cried. "If you touch that, it could kill you!"

To her shock, Grimnir remained calm. "By now, it certainly would have—or at least, it might have two centuries ago," he said. "Keening and Sunder were uniquely attuned to the energies of the Heart. But when it was removed from this world, the enchantments that Kagrenac wove into them—the same fatal enchantments you speak of—began to fade over the years. Now, they are only a shadow of their former selves." He chuckled grimly, and stared at Keening through his mask. "I doubt this blade is worth more than the boots on my feet.

"But that does not excuse you," Grimnir went on, his voice more stern now. "What you did was very foolish, Miss Malys—and could potentially have been very dangerous as well. You did not know this knowledge prior, and so you acted rashly."

Even as Malys bowed her head in shame, her brow had furrowed in confusion. It sounded to her like Grimnir was less concerned about her stealing from his personal quarters than what she had attempted to steal.

He laughed when Malys mentioned this to him—a genuine laugh, too, one that came as a surprise to the Dunmer. "Miss Malys, if I punished you for the simple act of larceny," he said, "I'd be as much of a hypocrite as half of Skyrim."

He indicated a nearby table and chair. "Please, have a seat," he invited Malys. At once relaxed and worried, she sat down, and the Arch-Mage ( _when did he change his mask?_ Malys wondered, when she noticed the previously gray face was now a dull orange) likewise took the chair across from her.

Once Grimnir was comfortable, he carefully laid Keening in the center of the table, and steeped his fingers. "I wondered if you'd indulge in an old man's tall tale while we were here," he said cheerfully.

Malys cocked her head to one side. "Is … this my punishment?" she asked with a little half-smile; she was genuinely puzzled, but not above a little jesting. The Dunmer was relieved to hear Grimnir laugh again—though was less so when he did not provide any further answer to her question.

"This was, oh, let's say three or four years ago," Grimnir began, coughing. "I'd only recently enrolled in the College as a novice like yourself. Yes, yes, I'm aware that's an inordinately short time," he said, apparently catching Malys' expression of surprise, "but for all intents and purposes, Tolfdir carries more weight in the day-to-day humdrum around here than I do. So you may think what you will.

"But I digress. Now, at that time, there was a scholar with the College: a Breton by the name of Arniel Gane. I only met him in passing at first, when I was inside the ruins of Saarthal. As time went on, he apparently noticed how advanced I had become in my studies, and requested my help in a project he'd been working on in his spare time."

"As with this elf Solyn you met in Rkund, Arniel was also fascinated with the dwarves—more to the point, he wanted to solve the mystery of their disappearance. And—after much trial and tribulation on both our parts—he confided to me that he wished to recreate the circumstances of this event."

Malys did a double take. "Recreate? How did he approach that?"

"He used a specially treated soul gem in place of the Heart of Lorkhan, and then after I'd acquired Keening for him, he struck the gem with the blade, and recorded the results."

Malys might only have been a novice, but her knowledge of the Tools was enough to tell her that there were holes in that plan wide enough to fit a Sload. "But a soul gem isn't the same thing as the heart of a _dead god_ ," she said incredulously. "And where was Sunder in all this? Keening was never supposed to be used on its own."

Grimnir folded his hands on the table. "Ostensibly, Arniel wasn't able to track it down. But I suspect he grew too eager to see his experiments bear fruit—and he paid a very high price in the process."

Malys suddenly felt a chill of dread crawl up her spine. "What do you mean? Was he successful?"

Grimnir slowly rose to his feet. "Arniel!" he called.

Malys whipped her head around when she heard the sound of a portal to Oblivion behind her. Unlike the ones she was familiar with, however, this particular portal was wreathed in bluish-white flame instead of the regular deep violet.

When she saw what came out of the portal—she gasped.

Not who, _what_ —though he had the form of a human, that was all he had in that particular regard, Malys thought as she looked at the thing that must have been Arniel Gane in another lifetime. His body was the same shade of translucent blue from robes to flesh, and his eyes were snow-white, unblinking, and glowing with a bright light that was not of this world.

And until he opened his mouth, Malys had thought him a ghost—a shade that had not yet fully passed on to the next life. But the sounds the thing-that-was-Arniel made were not human noises; they were more akin to the tortured moans and inane babble of a necromancer's puppet.

"It … stabs," it rasped, while Malys stared in horror. "It … flays. Deeper— _uhhh_ —than the earth … deeper than— _unnh_ —the mind."

"Make of it what you will, Miss Malys—even I don't know how successful he was," Grimnir said mournfully, as the shade of Arniel continued to moan incoherently. "I don't suspect I ever will, either—not least because of his present state of mind."

" … They pound … they drum … the pounding drums … echoes of the deep … "

"By this time," Grimnir went on, "I had only just settled into my current position, and I forbade any further research into the Dwemer without my authorization. I did not wish for another incident like Arniel's to happen again."

"What's he going on about?" Malys asked, still trembling at the otherworldly sight.

Grimnir shook his head. "Who can say? Perhaps he is trying to describe to us whatever realm he was sent to. Most of the time, nothing he says makes any sense at all."

Arniel's shade turned suddenly towards Malys, and the Dunmer had the distinct impression that it could see right through her. Then, she yelped in panic as the ghost suddenly rushed for her, and gripped her by the shoulders.

"The devil … and the deep elves," moaned the shade in a death rattle, clutching Malys like a lifeline. "United then … and for all time … sealed where neither daedra … nor divine— _urrragh_ —shall ever tread … "

Malys was shaking so violently her whole body appeared blurred. She was too petrified to even speak as the shade continued to speak, its spectral head only a foot away from her own.

"And— _uhhh_ —as with … the dwar—"

And then he let out an unearthly wail; Malys felt icy fingers tighten around her lungs, and the air of the room became as cold as the weather outside. Arniel's ghostly fingers had slipped through her body; the shade was fading from this world, returning to whatever hell it called home—though not without some parting words.

"Thus the … lost … house … survives … " it breathed, and then it had disappeared from sight at Malys' feet, leaving a chilling silence in its wake.

Grimnir rose from his seat after a long while. "I'm very sorry that you had to see that, Miss Malys," he said gently, laying a calming hand on her shoulder.

The Dunmer was still trembling, and she felt her eyes sting with tears. She had never remembered seeing anything more horrifying in her life—and that included what little memory she retained of her experience in Windhelm.

"Are you well, Malys?"

 _No. No, I am not well at all!_ And yet, as much as she believed otherwise, she felt her head nod up and down only slightly. She squished her eyes shut for a few moments, then opened them again, and took a deep breath.

"I think … I think I should get some rest," she said wearily.

"I understand," Grimnir nodded. He reached for a slip of paper next to him. "Would you take this to your friend Cosette before you turn in for the night, though? I believe she is in the Arcaneum downstairs with Miss Vinye."

Malys numbly nodded, and stood up from the chair. " … Thanks," she gulped nervously, not entirely sure if she should be thankful at all—as far as she could tell, she had not been punished for what she had done. But never in her wildest dreams had she expected any of this to happen.

She turned to leave.

"Malys."

Grimnir had risen up after her, and though Malys could not see his face beneath the mask, she wasn't at all sure if she wanted to.

"I will help you in your efforts this one time," said the Arch-Mage firmly. "But this is as far as I will go. From now on, whatever might happen as a result of this endeavor—for good or ill—you must shoulder your own burden. Too many lives have been lost in pursuing the mystery of the dwarves. I will not add more to that list."

Malys sensed then that their conference had drawn to a close. Taking the sheaf of parchment in hand, she descended the stairs to the Arcaneum. The faces of Solyn and Arniel drifted through her head, silently taunting her—tempting her.

She wondered if she would ever be able to fully explain what had happened in here to Vinye and Cosette.

* * *

"You're _joking_."

Cosette stared at the Dunmer as though she'd sprouted two extra heads. Vinye looked to be having some trouble choosing between scandalized shock and silent awe.

"You stole one of Kagrenac's Tools from the Arch-Mage's own bedroom and you didn't even get punished for it?" Cosette laughed. "How much did you have to seduce him for that to happen?"

A pause, and then her round face puckered in disgust. " _Damn_ the gods, I'm _never_ going to get that out of my head!"

"Quiet over there!" Urag growled from his desk. Cosette scowled back at him in return, and made a rude gesture at him under the table where the Orc couldn't see.

"I'm _really_ not in a mood to joke right now," Malys said, plopping herself down between the two mages. "What he showed me up there was a worse punishment than anything I'd imagined."

" _That's not_ _helping_ ," Cosette seethed.

Vinye cleared her throat loudly. "Perhaps we should focus on our research?" she asked tentatively.

Malys sighed. "I can't stay long," she said, picking up _Tamrielic Lore_ and leafing through it. "Right now, all I want to do is go to sleep. I just hope I _can_ after all that's happened this week."

Her eyes alighted on a random page of the book, and she skimmed it over. "Huh," she said. "Listen to this: _'Aside from its historical importance in the Battle of Rourken-Shalidor, the Spellbreaker protects its wielder almost completely from any spell caster, either by reflecting magicks or silencing any mage about to cast a spell.'"_

"That's a neat little trinket to have," Cosette said appreciatively. "Not a word to J'zargo," she added under her breath, even though the Khajiit was nowhere to be seen.

"The Rourken were one of the most well-known Dwemer clans of the First Era," Vinye recalled. "They put up freehold colonies in Hammerfell and Stros m'Kai. I think they even had some kind of Orrery on that island."

"The trouble is," Malys said, "the last time that anyone saw the Spellbreaker was a museum in Morrowind. And I've also heard that it's supposed to be a Daedric artifact as well. Peryite, I think it was."

Cosette groaned. "Then it could be anywhere! It might not even be in Mundus, for all we know!"

Vinye frowned. "Well, if that's the case … there is one other option. If we can't get to the Spellbreaker, why not make it come to us?"

The other mages stared at the Altmer, amazement slowly washing over them.

"Summon a Daedric Prince?" Cosette said in disbelief. "Are you out of your high-and-mighty-elf mind? You can't even summon a sodding _atronach_!"

Vinye recoiled at the insult as though she'd been stung, and she glared at Cosette.

"If we're getting the Daedra involved," Malys said calmly, "I'd much rather get Spellbreaker on my own—at least, if I were you, Vinye. You probably know more about conjuration than I do, so you're more equipped for this than I am."

"I wonder about that," Cosette grumbled.

"I'm flattered … really," said Vinye, a slight blush to her olive cheeks. "But I've already got another lead I want to check out for myself."

"Then I'll look into Spellbreaker," said Cosette. "I've heard there's a shrine to Peryite somewhere in the Reach, and I still know the area fairly well. And at least _I_ know how to summon a daedra without any help," she added under her breath.

"What about you, Malys?" Vinye asked.

The Dunmer thought long and hard. "J'zargo mentioned the ruins of Mzulft that one time. Knowing what I know of him, I probably won't find much in there, but it'll be a good starting point for me. I'll work my way south along the Velothi range—there's bound to be a fair amount of ruins in those mountains."

"We should also set up a time and place to meet when we're done," Vinye added. "How about Whiterun in … say, a week's time?"

"Assuming none of us dies?" Cosette said dryly. "Sure, that sounds like a plan to me."

Malys suddenly remembered the sheet of parchment Grimnir had given to her. "Oh—Cozy, this came for you earlier." She produced it between her index and middle fingers.

Cosette snatched it from her fingers without even looking her way, and slid a finger through the wax seal. She unfolded the letter, and spent the next few seconds skimming it over.

And then suddenly, she stood bolt upright from the table, and her chair fell to the floor with a clatter. Concerned, Malys and Vinye looked upward at her; the Breton's round face had changed completely. It was harder-edged now, angular. All trace of color had drained from it completely, and Cosette was trembling head to toe.

"Cosette?" Malys waved a hand in front of her face. "Cozy, are you all right?"

And then Cosette stuffed the paper into her robe. She was looking straight ahead, her neck rigid, and her eyes unmoving. Malys saw the glassy expression in them, and sensed from this and the Breton's ashen face that she'd just received some very bad news.

"I have to go," Cosette said brusquely. Before either of the elves could say anything, Cosette had slung her bag over her shoulder, turned on her heel, and raced out of the Arcaneum with a manic fury that reminded Malys of the first night she'd met Vinye.

The Altmer looked as bewildered as she did. "That was … strange," she said.

Malys was inclined to agree. "Should I follow her, ask what that was about?"

Vinye shook her head. "I wouldn't bother. Whatever was in that letter must have been very personal, if it affected her the way it did."

Malys sighed. "Vinye, can I ask you something?"

"Is it about Rkund?" Vinye looked suspiciously at her, and Malys shook her head.

"No, no … it's about this whole Dwemer business. Have you … have you ever wondered if all this trouble we're going to might be worth it in the end?"

Vinye thought for a while. "I'm a scholar," she finally said. "I came to Winterhold to study not just magic, or history, or any manner of books. I came to study _truth_. I've put up with my fair share of lies elsewhere, and it's time I put my effort into studying something that's actually worthwhile.

"I've heard a lot of conjecture and so-called theory about the disappearance of the Dwemer in my time, Malys. I've listened to blowhards and snakes put forth their lies for the sole purpose of ingratiation and social standing."

She leaned closer to Malys. " _And I want to prove them wrong_."

"But at what cost?" Malys pressed on. "Is solving the mystery of the dwarves worth dying for?"

"If it meant dispelling the ignorance of the frauds I've dealt with in the past," Vinye said indignantly, "then _yes_! Yes … I _would_ give my life to give Tamriel the truth it deserves to know!"

Malys listened to Vinye's speech with a quiet awe. She had come here merely to advance her own skills in magic—but after listening to the Altmer, she realized how … _petty_ that particular goal sounded in comparison. This was a mage who truly did want to unravel the mysteries of Aetherius, and would try her damnedest to do so.

"There aren't enough scholars like you in Tamriel, Vinye," she said appreciatively. "And between you and me, I think that's why you're going to make a damn good mage—more so than Cosette, and more so than me."

Vinye really _did_ blush this time.

"But if there's one thing the truth really does," Malys continued, "it's that it _hurts_. And the day the truth you've been following finally comes out … is the day when scholars like you won't have any place in Tamriel anymore."

Vinye grinned in a most un-Altmerish way. "I look forward to that day," she said boldly.

Malys yawned suddenly—she hadn't realized it was so late. "I think I should probably call it a night," she said, as she stood up from the table. "Good luck with your lead, Vinye." She flashed a wry grin. "Try not to die, all right?"

"Likewise," the Altmer smiled back. The two mages embraced one final time, and Malys departed the Arcaneum at length.

If she had thought to turn around at all, she might have seen that Vinye's green eyes had narrowed almost to slits, and were lingering on her rather longer than was necessary.

* * *

The prospect of going back into Eastmarch after her previous experience there did not sit well with Malys, and as a result she had to endure yet another sleepless night. Instead of Windhelm, she dreamed of another, nameless Dwemer ruin, but the faceless mass of eyes and mouths still chased her through the stone halls all the same. The steam from the pipes hissed at her in the voice of the "other Malys" while streaks of … something—whether it was pain or pleasure, she could not tell—shot through her body like lightning bolts.

Three times she tried to go to sleep, and three times the nightmare had woken her up in a cold sweat. By the third time, Malys had had enough; the first rays of the sun were shining through the windows, and she knew there would be no point in trying to rest any longer. Cursing the Prince Vaermina for her machinations, Malys donned her suit of elven armor, and began packing her supplies for the trip to come.

Vinye and Cosette had already left, by the looks of things—their beds were empty, and the alchemy table was almost bereft of potions and ingredients. Malys loaded everything that remained into her pack, donned her thick cloak, and departed the College for Winterhold proper.

Her spirits rose slightly when she saw the same horse and buggy from yesterday resting alongside the Frozen Hearth inn. The driver was huddled in his seat in a thick coat of his own, drinking a large bottle of mead. He looked up when he saw Malys.

"Where to?" he said idly.

"Kynesgrove," Malys answered, fishing some coins from her purse and handing them to the driver. "Take your time on the way—it's been a long night, and I'd like some sleep."

"Sure thing," grunted the driver, finishing off the last of his mead. "Just climb in back and we'll be off."

Malys clambered into the carriage, and reclined on the bench with a yawn as the driver flicked the reins, signaling the horse into a light trot. The soft clip-clop of the hooves against the snow-covered roads lulled her to sleep within fifteen minutes.

* * *

_Somewhere in the Sea of Ghosts_

"This had better be worth my time, mage," the ferryman said irritably as he maneuvered his wooden boat around the massive icebergs that dotted the sea. A thick mist rose from the black, ice-cold waters.

"I already paid triple your usual charge to go out this way, Gort," Vinye said calmly. Her breath formed clouds around her in the freezing air, and she had huddled into a ball inside her coat. "I'll give you the rest of your fee after we return to Windhelm."

"If this ends up being a wasted journey, I'll be expecting a lot more than that, too," Gort grumbled.

An iceberg, larger than any they had previously encountered so far, rose up before them. Vinye immediately knew she was on the right track. "That's it. This has to be the place," she said, noticing the second boat tied up alongside it, and the crude circular hatchway that seemed to lead into the blue-white monolith itself.

"You sure about this?" Gort asked, tying off his own boat as Vinye stood up. "This Septimus fellow sounds like he's been touched by the Madgod himself. And that's assuming he even exists anymore."

 _Oh, he exists all right_ , the Altmer thought to herself. There was no way that torch outside the hatchway had been burning as merrily right now as it must have been four years ago.

"All I need is fifteen minutes," Vinye said, gingerly putting a foot on the ice floe. Once she judged it safe enough to walk on, she exited Gort's ferry with a grunt. "I'm counting on you to wait for me until then."

And without another word, she pulled back the hatch and entered the iceberg.

It was considerably warmer inside, Vinye noticed—if only for the lack of wind. Nevertheless, it was still cold enough—or was she feeling more on edge than she thought? Vinye wondered—that she pulled her thick coat tighter around her body as she trekked further into the frozen behemoth.

"Dig, Dwemer, in the beyond … "

Vinye froze at the voice. It was wavering and singsong, and seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead of her.

" … I'll know your lost unknown, and rise to your depths … "

This was followed by a thin cackle, and Vinye shuddered, but she pressed on all the same; that had to be who she was looking for. The fissure took a sharp turn, and she could see light ahead.

"When the top level was built," the voice sang, "no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex."

Suddenly, the chasm opened into a massive cavern, large enough to comfortably fit a small house. Inside, Vinye saw the edge of a large square contraption below her; it must have been twice as wide and high as she was tall. Three giant blue crystals were set in its center, and were surrounded by concentric cogs of indeterminate purpose. It was completely at odds with the natural architecture of the cavern, and unmistakably Dwemer in origin.

A man in a dark blue robe paced back and forth before this enormous device, and he mumbled to himself all the while. "How long will it be sung?" he wheezed. "My feet were set upon the rock, but it turned to mud and drew me down!"

"Excuse me?" Vinye asked hesitantly. "Are you Septimus Signus?"

The man looked upwards, and Vinye could see that this man was very old indeed. He was bent nearly double with age, his wide eyes were clouded with cataracts, and his scraggly silver beard nearly reached down to his waist.

"The ice entombs the heart," he croaked. "The bane of Kagrenac and Dagoth Ur. To harness it is to know. The fundaments—the Dwemer lockbox hides it from me. But the Elder Scroll gives insight deeper than the deep ones, though, to bring about the opening."

Vinye decided to take that as a yes—though she thought Urag might have had a point. _This man must have been very popular at the College_ , she thought sarcastically; ten years of near-total seclusion had not been kind to him.

 _The sooner I give him the lexicon, the sooner I can get out of here_ , she thought.

She reached into her rucksack, and pulled out the glowing golden cube. "I was told to bring you this," she said.

Septimus' half-blind eyes flashed in recognition. "Give it!" he gasped. "Quickly!"

Vinye tossed the lexicon on the ice at his feet as though it had burst into flame. Septimus let out a little cry, and cradled the device in his arms for a little while, whispering indistinctly to it.

"Are you … all right?" Vinye couldn't help but ask.

Septimus cricked his head upwards, smiling a gap-toothed grin. "Oh, I am well," he sang. "I will be well. Well to be within the will inside the walls."

Vinye could only blink stupidly. _... What._

He turned his focus back to the lexicon. "Extraordinary," he rasped. "I see it now! The sealing signature interlocks in the tiniest fractals!"

Vinye frowned. "Wait—are you saying you can _read_ this?"

Septimus appeared not to have heard her. "Dwemer blood can loose the hooks," he rambled, and then suddenly he became crestfallen. "Ah, but none alive remain to bear it!"

The Altmer was looking around nervously. Something about this place was not sitting well with her at all—and it had nothing to do with the mad mage in front of her.

"Hmm … but a panoply of their brethren could gather to form a facsimile," Septimus mused. "Yes … a trick. Something they didn't anticipate—no, no, not even them."

He creaked his head in Vinye's direction. "You, highest one. Come you quickly to Septimus. The fractals of the universe have opened unto me, and I see now the way clear to render the cube's aperture."

Vinye didn't like where this was going, and she held up her hands defensively. "Just one moment—I was only told to bring you the lexicon," she said. "All I want is some kind of a reward; gold, information, anything. But whatever errand you want me to do, I'm not interested."

Septimus gave an odd little smile. "Ah, but as one block lifts the other, perhaps ourselves could help us each, hmm?"

Every ounce of Vinye's conscience was screaming at her to turn tail and run. "Go on," she said uneasily.

"The progeny of the First Folk is scattered to the winds," Septimus said. "You, most high elf, are but one of many branchings of their tree. Seek you out the forest and the snow; sift you through the dung and the ash. Then at the last, return you to your family, and we shall sing the song of the deep ones together."

Vinye tilted her head to one side, completely confused now.

The old wizard doddered over to a rotting cabinet. "A moment for Septimus," he wheezed, rummaging in its drawers. Eventually, he pulled out a mass of golden pipes about the same size as the lexicon, and gave it to Vinye.

"Begin you hence at Raldbthar. The first and second inside the third," he said cryptically. "Three tappings, two punctures, one threading into the deepest of reaches go you. Seek you thus your wind-swept children, and bid these tubules partake of their life-drink. Return you to Septimus when the replica is complete."

And with a final, thin cackle, Septimus Signus tucked himself into his bedroll, still mumbling to himself even as Vinye heard the slightest of snoring from him. Feeling her mind teeming with more questions than answers, she turned away from the icy chamber, and made her way back to the hatchway, back to Gort and his ferry—

—only to be rebuffed by a most unexpected sight. The bluish-white ice walls were turning a dark, sticky green, and slimy tendrils oozed from the fractures and pooled at her feet. Hundreds of eyes, the size of gold coins, stared back at her through the mess, inquisitive and calculating.

" ** _Come,_** " boomed a deep, beguiling voice that echoed in Vinye's mind more than it did her ears. " ** _Come closer, and bask in my presence …_** "

* * *

_Outskirts of Windhelm_

" _One_ thousand septims? This is a con! Do you know what I went through to get all this, you filthy son of a dripping kitten whore?!"

The Khajiit trader did not even blink at Cosette's tirade, nor did he bat an eye at the pieces of ebony armor she had thrown haphazardly at his feet—even though he secretly would have enjoyed being able to wear such a fine, if only _slightly_ worn, example of craftsmanship.

"Ma'dran finds it easier to not ask questions," he said matter-of-factly. "More business that way, he finds.

"As to the nature of your proposal, I would be willing to discuss more if you were to find a matching helmet as well to complete the set. The sum is greater and more profitable than its parts, yes?"

Cosette seethed through her teeth, wanting nothing more than to set something—or some _one_ —on fire. But the letter Malys had given her last night was more important than shady merchants or temper tantrums; right now, she didn't have the time to stand around and argue—or the patience.

And so, with the greatest mental effort she'd ever exerted, she managed to finally calm down.

"I have _got_ to be the biggest sucker in Skyrim," she groaned. She relaxed her iron grip on the Forsworn blade hanging at her side, and aimed a kick at the shiny black boots that had once belonged to the mercenary she'd managed to roast in his own armor earlier this morning. "Take it all, then, you thieving little sod."

Wordlessly, Ma'dran counted out a large bag of gold. "May your road lead you to warm sands," he purred.

Cosette swiped the bulging sack. "I hope you die in a fire," she said half to herself as she made for the stables nearby.

She dropped the heavy sack of coins on a fresh pile of straw, and began attaching a saddle and a set of reins to the lone bay-and-white steed in the stable. She looked at the bemused pair of Altmer stablehands in annoyance.

"Keep the change," she said tersely. "I'm on a deadline, and I don't want to waste time on idle chatter."

Both the stablehands looked like they had plenty of questions to ask. But they weren't about to say no to the mass of gold at their feet, and so they let the Breton go about her business.

Once she was done, Cosette wasted no time in bringing her steed into a brisk trot. As she pulled out of the stable, she pulled out the letter to study it one more time. The penmanship was a spidery scrawl that she almost hadn't been able to read. There had been no postmark, no signature of any kind. But the five simple words that made up the message left Cosette in no doubt of who might have sent it to her.

 

> _You are not alone, Ionsaithe_.

Pocketing the letter once more, Cosette grasped the reins tightly now, and spurred the horse into a full gallop.

* * *

_Rkund_

"Solyn! Solyn!"

The wizard looked up from his meager meal at the mention of his name.

One of the miners he'd sent topside was running in his direction. A lumpy package was clutched in his hand.

"A courier from Winterhold came by just now. He said this is from the Arch-Mage!"

Intrigued, Solyn set aside his plate of food and stood up. "Let me see it," he said. The miner brandished the package.

When Solyn felt it in his hands, a rush of adrenaline surged through his body. He immediately knew what was inside, and he had to fight the urge to smile in triumph for fear of alerting the other miners and hired hands. Turning away from them, he risked a small peek at the contents, and was further rewarded when he saw a sliver of Keening's crystal blade protruding from its wraps.

"At last," he whispered to himself.

A slip of parchment was enclosed alongside the legendary dagger as well. Solyn unfolded it, and began to read.

 

> _Solyn,_
> 
> _Enclosed is our response. The College hopes this will be a most enlightening and profitable venture for all parties involved._
> 
> _We look forward to continuing our business with you._
> 
> _Grimnir Torn-Skull_
> 
> _Archmagus of Winterhold_

Solyn pocketed the parchment and the package within his robe. It took all of his willpower not to start trembling with anticipation. _After so long_ , he thought, _I'm that much closer._

"Ambrose! Roderick!"

A Breton and a Redguard rose from their seat around a fire. "You called?" the Breton asked.

"Ready the first of the shipments to Winterhold," Solyn instructed them. "The Arch-Mage will want to see his compensation posthaste, so do not delay in your efforts."

The two miners nodded, and hurried off.

Solyn, in the meantime, headed to the lift that led to the Reliquary. He pulled the lever, and the platform sank deeper into the bowels of the citadel.

 _It won't be much longer now_ , he thought, betraying a small smile of excitement. _Soon, the last mystery of the Dwemer will be undone._

_And when it is, I will be honored beyond my wildest dreams …_


	7. VI

VI

_On the banks of River Karth_

It was sometime in the mid-morning when Cosette's horse collapsed. The mixture of fatigue, thirst, and the diverse climate of Skyrim—combined with the fact that the steed had been galloping at full tilt since Windhelm with hardly any rest breaks whatsoever—had finally proved lethal. The tongue hung limply from the horse's mouth, dry and cracked, and his eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, unseeing. Flies were already beginning to gather around the body.

Cosette felt only a mild pang of sorrow as she picked herself up from the worn stones of the road, where the horse had dropped her in his last moments. The contents of the letter still occupied the foremost place in her mind—perhaps if things were different, she would have been more mindful of the horse's health, and perhaps managed to keep him alive along enough to make the trip to Whiterun.

But wishes, she reflected, were not so easily granted in Skyrim.

A quick look around the area told Cosette she was right on the eastern border of the Reach; the decaying fort in front of her was one she recognized as Harmugstahl. An alternative plan was forming in her head even now: the town of Karthwasten was less than a mile to the south, she remembered. If she followed the riverbank, she would eventually come across the road that led to the mining settlement. From there, she would seek information on the shrine to Peryite that she'd heard was located close by.

And so, unhooking her supplies from the dead horse, she set on her way with a grim set to her jaw.

She met nothing on her journey there—not even local wildlife, which she found unsettling—until after about ten minutes of walking, she came across a most interesting sight. A young man—a Breton, judging by his slight build—was sitting on the riverbank, bent double over a rock and coughing horribly. His skin was incredibly red, and Cosette would have taken it for sunburn if not for the earliness of the hour, and all the clouds in the sky.

As she approached him, the man seemed to have sensed her arrival, and whirled around. Instinctively, Cosette backed away.

"You finished ogling the grotesque?" the Breton said irritably, in spite of his apparent ill health. He coughed again, and Cosette saw something sticky and sickly green dribble out of his mouth and splatter on the grass.

"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.

Eventually, after much hacking and more bile oozing from his lips, the Breton nodded more pleasantly. "Aye. Peryite smile upon you for your thoughts."

"Peryite?" Instantly Cosette was intrigued. "What do you know about him?"

The Breton smiled, and wiped his lips. "I'd be dead from this plague a year ago by now if it wasn't for his protection. My name is Duphraime. I'm one of the Afflicted."

Cosette didn't know what they were. "Then you must be going to Peryite's shrine, then?" she guessed. "To pray to him for further protection?"

Duphraime sighed. "No. I'm going back to High Rock. Our shepherd has turned his back on Peryite, you see, and I fear that His wrath may consume the Afflicted who are still loyal to him."

 _Shepherd?_ Cosette frowned at the religious irony of a shepherd losing his way. "Can you at least tell me anything about his shrine?"

Duphraime shook his head. "Kesh is the one you want to go to about that. He lives on a hill to the west, over Karthwasten."

Cosette rested her hand on her sword. "Take me to him," she said icily. "Now."

Duphraime eyed the blade with a wry smile. "Killing me would be an act of mercy," he said tonelessly, without any hint of fear at all. "This plague I carry is more painful than all the torments of the Pits of Oblivion. A blade to the chest is nothing compared to what I've been through."

Cosette laughed like a cat being told off by a mouse. "And what if Peryite is displeased that one of his little lost lambs has run away from the fold?" she smirked. "Would you be willing to take that chance?"

Duphraime's smile faltered—for only a moment, and then it was gone—but Cosette had seen the sudden change of expression, and she knew that she'd won. "I suppose you've a point," he said ruefully, hauling his form off the rock. "Come along, then. I will take you to Kesh. He'll tell you all you need to know about Peryite."

He draped an arm over Cosette's shoulders, and together, the two hobbled westward.

* * *

Kesh, to Cosette's minor annoyance, turned out to be another Khajiit—but there was an air about him that set him apart from the clever, scheming J'zargo and the silver-tongued Ma'dran. Kesh was more relaxed than either of the two, and even though he was surrounded by little more than a pot over a small fire, his bedroll, and a simple alchemy table, Cosette sensed that Kesh was more … _content_ than his fellow cats, even in his simple surroundings.

As Cosette crested the hill, Duphraime in tow, the most striking thing about the summit was the large tree before her. It did not seem native to the Reach—Cosette suspected the mass of thick green vines at its roots that wrapped around the tree's trunk and branches might have something to do with that. A golden urn was situated before the tree, and wisps of smoke drifted lazily from the basin.

The Khajiit looked up from the bowl of unidentifiable stew in his paws at the sight of the two Bretons. "Ah, warm sands, travelers!" he greeted them. "You are pilgrims, then? You come to commune with Peryite—our Taskmaster and Blighted Lord?"

Cosette tilted her head at the titles. "Do you worship Peryite?" she asked.

Kesh grinned. "He is the pus in the wound," he said. Catching Cosette's expression, he continued, "The proper ones may curl their noses, but this pus does not spread the foul humors of disease—but _drinks_ them instead, and restores the blood. I worship Peryite, yes, because sometimes the world can be cleansed only through disease.

"Now," he said, looking from one Breton to the other, "do _you_ worship the Prince of Pestilence?"

" _He_ does," Cosette said, idly jerking her head in Duphraime's direction. At a nod from Kesh, the sickly Breton edged closer to the tree, and prostrated himself before its roots. "But I have a question for you—and for your 'Taskmaster.'"

Kesh's grin grew wider. "Ah. You wish to entreat my lord?" he said shrewdly. When Cosette nodded, he went on, "I must warn you, friend, that not everyone has the stomach to do such a thing. But Kesh likes the smell of you,"—Cosette recoiled at the words—"and he just so happens to know how to prepare an incense to please His nostrils."

Cosette did a tiny double take. History was telling her this Khajiit was pulling a fast one on her. And yet, again, there was something that set him apart from J'zargo and Ma'dran. He was smooth, but not slippery; confident, but not overly so. It wasn't much to write about, but she'd not met a Khajiit who she'd been able to trust so quickly.

 _If he really knows what he's doing_ , she thought, _getting this Spellbreaker will be a cinch_.

Kesh rummaged in a satchel, and produced some seemingly haphazard odds and ends: a fresh cutting of deathbell, a polished ingot of pure silver, one of the fattest and finest-cut rubies Cosette had ever laid eyes upon, and a pinch of vampire dust. All of these were carried over to the basin before the tree. Kesh muttered an indistinct incantation, dumped them inside, and Cosette heard a thick, glutinous splash from within.

The smoke changed now from a thin, wispy grey to a billowing mist of green—the same shade of green, Cosette noted uneasily, as the vile substance she'd seen Duphraime spitting out every now and again.

"Yes, yes—a fine fume indeed, no?" Kesh smiled. He bid Cosette come closer. "Come then, take a breath, and we shall see if Peryite is roused, hmm?"

Cosette wasn't so sure. Now that she was closer to the urn, she could see the bilious green mire that filled it to the brim—and more importantly, she could smell it, too. It was easily the most disgusting scent to have invaded her nose, and she wondered if this was anything like what Malys had gone through when eating that charred skeever hide of hers.

Without trying to think about it, she inhaled—and promptly gagged.

Immediately, the colors of the land washed over one another, and became bright and saturated. The world spun before her in every direction, and she screwed her eyes shut to block out the overwhelming imagery.

She opened them again at length, and noticed that the world had stopped turning, though the colors ran worse than ever. Her gaze was locked before the tree, and she saw its branches undulating in a way that had nothing to do with the wind. Ghostly skeevers cavorted around its roots, sniffing at Cosette curiously.

 _Breathe deep, mortal_. A sibilant voice, cold and haughty, echoed through the hallucinogenic scene. _I would have you hear me well; so let these vapors fill your lungs_.

A corner of Cosette's mind was still sensible enough to hear this. _Peryite?_ she guessed. _What's going on here? Did that cat poison me?_

 _No more than a fool after too much wine_ , the Daedric Prince said nonchalantly. _A lesser mortal than you would be cast adrift in the dreamless sleep of the drunk._

 _But you are_ here _because you have proved most intriguing to me. I have watched you for a long while, and you have made some very …_ interesting _decisions in your life. You may prove to be an able agent for a task of mine._

 _Task._ Cosette felt an uneasy confusion at the word—not to mention Peryite's apparent curiosity in what she had done for herself. _What kind of 'task'?_

A shadow moved across the bleary image of the sun, and Cosette saw a massive winged shape hovering there, though it was too far away to make out anything further.

 _I sent a blessing to Mundus some years past_ , Peryite said smugly, _and spread my most wasting plague to a number of villages in High Rock. Further, I bid one of my monks—a Bosmer, Orchendor by name—to collect the Afflicted left in its wake. I prepared them an ideal home in the ruins of Bthardamz—but Orchendor has since lost his way._

The sky darkened, and became suffused in the color of blood. _I_ willnot _stand for this betrayal,_ hissed the Prince, as fire leaped from the now-scorched earth and licked the air around a surprised Cosette. _You will go to Bthardamz, and you will put this treacherous shepherd and his flock to the sword in my name!_

Cosette recovered from the change in scenery. _What has he done to 'lose his way'?_ she asked.

 _Impertinent. Irrelevant._ Peryite's voice hissed like a swordblade in the wind. _He is to die all the same. You will carry out my will—or you will not. You are not the only agent I have at my disposal._

Cosette hardened her face defiantly. _You think I care about any of this?_ she cried at the winged form in the sky. _You know why I'm here. You know what I want._

An icy cackle filled the air, and the hellish landscape slowly faded around her. _Ah, the_ pettiness _of mortals,_ Peryite sneered. _Very well. Return when the blood of Orchendor stains Bthardamz' streets, and the escutcheon called Spellbreaker shall be yours to use as you see fit._

 _That's all I needed to hear,_ Cosette said, satisfied. _Now get me out of here—I can't well kill anyone if I'm drugged up like a Khajiit on moon sugar now, can I?_

Peryite laughed thinly. _Indeed not_ , he smirked as the vision finally began to fade. _Kill the elf, and you shall receive your reward_.

* * *

It took a while before Cosette's head was free of the ghastly stench. When her head was sufficiently clear—which was more than she could say for Duphraime, who appeared to have fallen into a drugged sleep in the midst of his prayers—she made her way to Kesh.

"Bthardamz," she coughed. "Where is it?"

The Khajiit smiled, and pointed further to the west. Cosette followed his claw, and saw a large number of the Dwemer's telltale golden towers a fair distance away. Her heart rose considerably—she'd been worried of having to trek all the way to the other end of Skyrim again; Daedric Princes were wont to treat mortals that way.

Hoisting her pack once again, then, she gave Kesh a perfunctory wave, and started on her way down the slope.

 _How much does Peryite know about my life?_ Cosette wondered. She would not deign herself arrogant enough to be able to claim to understand their ways; the Daedra could be cunning and subtle, or blunt and candid, and could switch between any of those moods as easily as they could switch gender and form.

But the remark from the Prince had disturbed her greatly; there was much about her life she had withheld from public knowledge. The College, and Malys and Vinye, while certainly more open and understanding than she'd anticipated, could never know the whole story—not unless Cosette had no other choice but to tell them personally.

She'd only just reached the dirt path leading to Bthardamz when two children nearly ran headlong into her. They were Nords, each as fair-haired as the other, and their blue eyes looked very frightened.

"What's going on here?" she asked, her voice stern but concerned—not many families in the Reach had children, and those that did would surely have never let their own wander out and about in such a dangerous part of Skyrim. "What are you doing out here all by yourselves?"

While his companion caught his breath, the other child related his story to Cosette. "Bottar and I were playing near this old dwarven bridge down that way," he explained, pointing towards the northwest, "and these two men in brown robes scared us off!"

"They said they'd have our skulls for pestles!" chimed in Bottar. "We never ran so fast in our lives, did we, Sond?" Sond nodded.

" _Brown_ robes?" Cosette asked them. Something about that didn't sound right. _Surely it can't be …_ "Can you tell me what they looked like?" she asked the children. "Eyes, faces, anything?"

The one called Sond though for a moment. "Oh, yeah!" he said. "They had tattoos all over their faces. Orange tattoos—like they were shooting fire from their eyes and mouths. Kind of … like … yours … "

Cosette didn't notice that Sond had trailed off, and was pointing at her own tattoos in sudden horror; alarm bells by the dozen had been set off in her head, and she felt a cold sweat dripping down her neck.

_No. That can't be. They can't be here!_

Ignoring Sond and Bottar's cries, she pulled them closer to her, and bent down till she was at eye level with them. "Listen to me, and listen good," she said in hushed tones. "There's a redoubt just to the north of here. You run over there, and don't you dare stop, not for _anything_. If anyone asks, just say that Cosette sent you. Those two men won't get to you in there. Understand?"

They nodded, and sprinted away from the Breton as though a whole flock of dragons were hot on their heels. Cosette, meanwhile, resumed her trek westward with a combination of trepidation and renewed vigor.

Her heart leapt in her throat as she saw two forms approach from opposite Bthardamz, round the corner of the road, and walk towards her. As they drew closer, Cosette could see more of them in detail: they were male, and wore hooded robes of brown trimmed with gold weave. Each of them had a crude stone dagger thrust into their belt.

Quick as a flash, she readied a firebolt in each hand, and blasted them at the feet of the two men. "One more step," she growled, trying her damnedest to not betray her own uneasiness. "One more step, I dare you! That'll be enough reason for me to tear you apart and bathe my blade in your blood."

The two men looked at each other, and lowered their hoods in tandem, revealing shaved heads and ornamental earrings made from the skulls of young rock warblers. Tattoos of orange flames—identical to her facial markings—licked their eyelids and their lips.

"Spoken like a true Ionsaithe," said one of them, smiling warmly—his sharpened teeth notwithstanding.

Cosette lowered her hands, shocked beyond belief as the flames flickered and died. "I didn't want to believe those kids," she said softly, "that you of all people would be out here."

She took a step forward. "So you sent that letter, then?" She brandished the slip of parchment in one hand, waving it in front of their faces, while her other hand toyed with her Forsworn blade. "Come on, then—what do a pair of Cullers know about my clan?"

"We merely _intercepted_ the letter," said the smiling Culler. "When we saw who it was for, we knew to go to Winterhold posthaste."

"Have you been looking for me this whole time?" Cosette asked suspiciously.

The Culler's grin widened. "That would imply we lost you in the first place, Cosette."

Cosette was afraid that had been the case, but that still didn't stop her from feeling extremely uneasy that these people had managed to keep tabs on her from all the way across the province—or that they still knew her by name after all these years.

The other Breton was more serious than his companion. "The remnants of your clan fled to Skyrim after the siege of Dragonstar, and the War of the Bend'r-mahk," he said. "They spread throughout the Reach, growing in numbers and in name, and when the Forsworn came to power, many of them were assimilated into their camps.

"That much you know," he continued. "But many elected to stay in High Rock. They propagated throughout the land, interbreeding with the other clans of the province. Though the clan as a whole is still very much alive, there are very few pureblooded Ionsaithes left in Tamriel," he said solemnly. "And with the heavy casualties sustained as a result of the Forsworn uprising, he believed you were the only pureblood still alive."

"He?" Cosette frowned. "Who exactly sent this letter?"

"The author's identity remains a mystery," said the first Culler, still smiling. "But it's not hard to guess. A single pure Ionsaithe has enough power in their blood to decimate an entire company of Imperial battlemages—power that the Forsworn craves more than anything. Even their wish to take back the land that was stolen from them."

Cosette's head was spinning. She knew about the Ionsaithe clan's abilities—and had even used them in her fight against that wispmother. Vinye and Malys hadn't ventured to inquire about its true nature, though; they had foolishly assumed it to be a simple absorption ward, when in reality it had the potential to be something far more deadly. But to hear that the Forsworn wanted this power …

The second Culler cleared his throat. "We drift too far," he said abruptly. "That letter was sent to you, Ionsaithe, because its author made a discovery that concerned your family. Your _immediate_ family."

 _What?_ Cosette's eyes grew wider. "Are you saying—?"

"Yes," the first Culler said. "You are not the last of your kind, Cosette. Your mother and father are still out there."

Cosette's knees buckled, and it took every last ounce of her willpower to not sink to her knees at the revelation. "How do you know all this?" she whispered. "Where are they now? _Tell me_!"

"We dare not ask," said the other gruffly. "To do so would invite too much suspicion. The Forsworn believe us to be little more than legends—myths and tales of caution and vigilance. But we have infiltrated their camps, yet we have found no corpses with hair or tattoos that match the fire of your own."

Cosette frowned. "Then they must have returned to High Rock—reformed the clan. Every tribe needs purebloods to survive—otherwise they're nothing more than a litter of mongrels."

The second Culler made a growling noise. "Know your place, Ionsaithe. You may share their blood, but you would do well to share the same high regard we hold for your own family!"

"I know who I am!" Cosette hissed through her teeth. "I am Ionsaithe. I am _invincible_."

She unsheathed her blade, quick as a wink, and brought it to an attack stance. "Now—do you want an object lesson on the meaning of the word, or are you going to let me be on my way?"

The two Cullers looked at each other once more. Finally, they stepped aside, though the first Culler reached inside his robes as he did so. "Those two children," he said, pulling something from his pocket. "They dropped this when we ran them out of Deep Folk Crossing. We think it might be of use to you in your current … _endeavor_."

He placed a very strange object inside Cosette's hands—a sort of bluish, crystalline half-moon, a little less than a foot wide, with a toothy protrusion the size of her fist jutting out from the concave. It pulsed with a pale light, and tingled against her skin.

"What is it?" she asked, finding herself unable to tear her eyes off it. "Is it Dwemer?"

"We think so," said the second Culler, "but we have never concerned ourselves with the creations of the dwarves. And our advice to you, Ionsaithe, is that you stop pursuing the same."

Cosette narrowed her eyes, and leveled her sword at the Breton. "You don't get to order me around," she snarled. The Cullers have no command structure—no physical leader at all. _I_ do what _I_ want—it's as simple as that."

The Culler didn't blink. "Only so long as you bear in mind the oath you swore in your own blood!"

And then suddenly, he reached out and grabbed Cosette by the scruff of her robes, pulling her in close. The Breton could taste his rancid breath; were it not for her experience with Peryite, she might have fainted then and there.

"You are Ionsaithe," the Culler hissed in her ear. "But you are also one of _us_ , and you cannot hide behind your family name forever, whelp. Because if you forget for even one moment that you still have a duty to fulfill … then the Forsworn will forget _their_ duty as well."

The Culler threw Cosette back from him; she stumbled, but did not fall. At a nod from his companion, the Cullers replaced their hoods upon their heads without a word, and continued on their journey, leaving behind a very disconcerted Cosette.

The Breton didn't move from her spot until she was absolutely sure that the two men had disappeared in the distance. Her communion with Peryite had been forgotten, if only for the moment.

She entertained the Culler's last words in her head. _You still have a duty to fulfill …_

 _I know my duty_ , Cosette thought resolutely, as she resumed her journey to Bthardamz. _I went to Winterhold to be strong—stronger than them, the Forsworn, or anyone._

_What I do … I do for my family._

_For my name._

* * *

The Dwarven ruins here were markedly different from Rkund, Cosette saw—and not just in their size and sprawl.

The same vines she had seen infesting Peryite's shrine seemed to be sprouting from the stone itself. Some of them bore bulbous, glowing shoots, whose smell reminded her of the sewers of Markarth even from a full house-length away. Scrunching up her nose, she ascended a stone staircase.

Two Bretons in mismatched robes and armor blocked the gate. Their skin was red as a ruby. _Just like Duphraime_ , thought Cosette. Wordlessly, she unhooked her Forsworn blade from her robe, and readied her fire spells.

She had always liked fire, ever since she was little. High in the Druadach Mountains were giant coniferous trees, some reportedly standing as high as Direnni Tower itself; at a young age, she had learned from her mother that they could only grow in the wake of a destructive forest fire, as their seeds were extremely tough, and could only be cracked by the most intense of heat.

 _Fire is nature's greatest and most terrible balance_ , her mother had said that day. _It is a destroyer of civilizations … but it is also a creator of worlds. A disease, and yet a cure._

The Afflicted moved to intercept. The one in the robes charged up a frost spell, and his right hand hissed as it released a chilling blast of air from his palm. It was slow on the move, though, and Cosette dodged it easily.

The other Afflicted, however, threw back his head as if to shout at the top of his lungs at her. Cosette, still in midair after dodging the ice storm, watched in fascinated horror as his lips boiled with sickening green sludge—and literally _fired_ it at her like a weapon. His aim was abysmal, though, and the projectile splashed harmlessly a few feet in front of her. The stone hissed noisily as the vomit actually melted through the smoothly cut rock, leaving a misshapen, boiling hole in its wake.

Cosette stared wild-eyed at the sight, thinking privately that this task of Peryite's was becoming less and less worth it by the minute. _I can't let that hit me_ , she thought, _or I'll be finished for sure_.

The Afflicted mage moved to release his own mucinous missile, but Cosette was already upon him: she charged headlong for him until she was merely inches away, then fed him a whole foot of her sword. The crude but brutal lashing ripped into the Afflicted's throat, emerging from the base of his spine, and Cosette saw his stomach bulge slightly green with the backfire as she frantically kicked his body away.

"You won't even live to regret that!" The other Afflicted moved to carve up her face with the dagger in his hand, but Cosette had already charged up her magic. The flaming missile hit the Breton full in the chest, burning through his diseased heart in a matter of seconds and killing him instantly.

Cosette saw no more guards as she proceeded through the exterior of Bthardamz; indeed, the only resistance she was met with was a pair of levers. One activated a spinning blade concealed in the staircase; thankfully, Cosette was able to get out of its range before deactivating the trap. The other lowered a spiked wall, leading to a door set into the rock.

Exhaling briefly, preparing herself for the journey ahead, Cosette stepped into Bthardamz.

* * *

Bretons had always been on the runty side, particularly the females, but Cosette was short even among her own race—both in stature and in temper. It wasn't a common sight, then, that could make her feel even smaller than the even five feet she stood.

Bthardamz was one of those sights. Where Rkund had seemingly been nothing but down, down, down, Bthardamz was here, there, and everywhere—it was absolutely _sprawling_. Even the corridors of the city—lit by gas-powered lamps, and more of the thick green glop she'd inhaled at Peryite's shrine, could have swallowed the towers of Markarth in a single gulp.

Cosette froze suddenly as she heard a pair voices in the distance, somewhere in a room off to her right. She brought spell and sword at the ready without a sound.

"Another request from Orchendor?" Grating, and choleric.

"Yes, brother," Meek, and subservient. "Our shepherd needs more of the ichor delivered to the Arcanex tomorrow. He believes using it alongside the machinery there will help him commune with Peryite."

A grunt. "I delivered ten barrels to him hours ago! You try me with your incompetence."

"Apologies, brother. The blessings of our Lord go with you."

Another grunt. "Yes, yes. Now leave me to my rest and go back to your post."

There was silence, then, broken only by the sound of padded footfalls coming closer. Cosette's breath caught in her throat as her boot slipped on some loose rubble.

 _Damn it_.

"Hmm?" The meek voice instantly became alert at the noise, and Cosette backed up against the wall, watching for any sign of movement. A balding head peeked out—and was immediately sliced off at the neck by Cosette, who caught the armored body and laid it carefully to the floor so as not to make any more unnecessary noise.

Thirty seconds later, the old man to whom he had been speaking to had had his throat slit in his sleep, and Cosette moved on without a word.

She continued to fight more Afflicted as she delved deeper into Bthardamz, which was fast becoming a labyrinthine network without any hint of any definite entrance or exit. The passageways were becoming increasingly confusing to navigate, and it did not help that the wrong ways contained plenty of automatons waiting to spring out at luckless adventurers—she'd found that out the hard way after having to blow up no less than six spiders with a very hastily drawn rune.

After half an hour of fighting men and machines alike, Cosette's body was badly singed and smelled of spilt oil from all the automatons she'd come across. She fervently hoped Tolfdir was right about there being running water in Dwarven ruins—if she kept going on smelling like this, sneaking around would be impossible.

At length, she came upon a huge chamber, high and wide enough to fit a full quarter of Markarth. A number of Afflicted were situated inside, all of them gathered around a large, thin totem carved in the likeness of a dragon, and surrounded by more of the green slime. She decided to hold here for a moment, catch her breath and plan ahead—there were too many in there to take on at once. No—this was going to take some strategy.

"Peryite, heed our call if you deem us worthy," Cosette heard one of the Afflicted say, and guessed her to be some kind of priestess. "Our shepherd has led us here, and for that we are thankful. He has shown us that our suffering is not a punishment, but a blessing."

Cosette took a quick scan of the room. Three, four, five, ten, fifteen Afflicted—all of them too spread out for her firebolts to be effective.

"Yes," echoed the congregation, "a blessing."

Her eyes alighted on the glowing goop. _Unless …_

A second Afflicted spoke up, this one male. "We have sought your guidance for months on end, yet have heard nothing from you. If we do not please you, Peryite, give us a sign so that we may understand why."

It was time to test a theory—and perhaps show off a little now that Vinye and Malys weren't around to see what she was really capable of.

"Yes, a sign," chorused the Afflicted.

"We are lost without your guidance," said the priestess, and Cosette could hear the mixture of fear and faith in her trembling voice. "On the ninth of Rain's Hand our prayers went unanswered, yet here we stand. We will not falter in our faith in you—and we believe that you will show yourself to us."

Both her hands began to burn with fire—at exactly the same time, and at exactly the same temperature—and she brought them together slowly but surely. She would only get one shot at this.

"Yes, we believe."

"And until that day comes, we will continue to devote our lives to you … and suffer in your name."

"Yes, suffer."

Fifteen heads whirled around and upward at the voice that did not belong to any of them.

 _Now_.

Cosette, grinning like a madwoman at the congregation below, released her fiery missile directly at the base of the totem, and threw up a ward right as the supercharged fireball made contact with the slime.

The slime _exploded_. A massive flaming sphere erupted inside the chamber with a thunderous roar. None of the Afflicted lived long enough to know what happened before the conflagration consumed them, leaving nothing but charred remains and the stench of burning flesh in its wake.

Only when the last of the flames had died did Cosette finally drop her ward. The shockwave had turned her red hair nearly black, and the heat had curled and frayed it severely. But she didn't care about that right now—the euphoria of what she had just done carried her like wings, and she felt like she could fly.

But she knew deep down that she had to remain calm. This was just another infiltration for her—one of many she'd undertaken in her life. It didn't matter if all of Bthardamz knew she was here now; if they were not prepared for her, then her mission was already complete. All that was left to do was clean up the mess.

 _Just like the Cullers_ , she thought. _All those camps, those redoubts and caves—it's starting to feel like old times again_.

She swung open a set of metal doors. They opened into a dimly lit pavilion as wide as the College courtyard—and yet it was still dwarfed by the immense cavern in which she'd just walked into.

All thoughts of her past memories—of the Afflicted, of the College and the Cullers, vanished at the sight of it all; she sank to her knees, it was too much to take in.

 _I am_ so _lost_.

* * *

One hour, two dozen Afflicted, and three dwarven spiders later, a badly battered Cosette had finally managed to drag herself into a secluded alcove where she could heal herself. Water spilled in front of her from a broken pipe high above; she greedily drank from it and stood within it, letting all the soot, oil, vomit stains, and general filth wash off her ruined clothing. She was tempted to go the distance and take a full-blown shower—Gods only knew the last time she'd had one of those—but there was no telling when more Afflicted patrols might show up, and she doubted she had Malys' capacity for seduction (she grimaced at her _very_ loose use of the word) to complement her figure—or that the Afflicted would just as soon kill a naked young woman just as they would any other man or mer.

Cosette looked mournfully at her hands—one of the Afflicted she'd killed had managed to graze her unscarred hand with that damned poisonous vomit. The worst of it had been healed, but the wounds had bubbled and hissed more than they ought to as they sealed up. The flesh around her wrist and fingers was left knotted and bumpy, like badly kneaded dough, and Cosette suspected there might be some scarring if she wasn't careful—her healing magic could only go so far. Wounds this severe would need some very potent restoration potions.

Cosette noticed a small dwelling nearby, one that didn't look like it had any connection to the rest of the ruins. Her spirits lifted—there might be some potions in there, or even an alchemy lab. Maybe if she was lucky, there was a bed inside as well, and she could rest herself mentally and physically before her inevitable confrontation with this Orchendor.

She walked toward it, and entered the dwelling without a sound.

There was no alchemy table within sight, which was regrettable, but the presence of several large red bottles on the ledge opposite her more than made up for that. Surely that would be enough to restore her malformed hand and—

"Are you asleep?"

Cosette froze in her tracks when she heard the voice _right there_.

"I know you can't hear me, brother," said the voice of a young woman off to Cosette's left. A partition separated the two apart; neither knew the other was there. "But I don't like what we've become."

Cosette managed to calm her thundering heart after what felt like hours. As silently as she could, she reached for her Forsworn blade and crept closer to the edge of the grating.

"We've been here so long," the woman continued, "and what do we have to show for it?" Her voice was near to tears. "Orchendor promised us a place where we'd be accepted, taken care of. He promised Peryite would be present at all times, and give us comfort in our suffering."

Cosette heard a wet sniffle. "Forgive me, brother, but I have not felt Peryite's presence. Not for a long time."

Something shifted, and Cosette heard boots upon the stone. "I want out. I want to leave this place. I want to breathe the air of High Rock once again, to see our mother and father in Daggerfall. But the more I see their faces, the sicker I become … and the more I know I'll never see them again."

A scornful, pitiful laugh. "But who am I kidding?" she said. Cosette imagined a tearful smile, resigned to her fate as she stroked her sleeping brother's hair. "You'd never let me leave anyway, would you? I know how devoted you are to Orchendor—how you believe in his promises with all your heart.

"I also know this place is going to be the death of us. It's only a matter of time now. … But I will always regret that one summer day when I introduced you to Orchendor."

Cosette heard the faintest hint of a kiss. "Sleep well—for both of us … Kastus Ionsaithe."

_Ionsaithe?!_

And then, before she even knew what she had done, Cosette had launched from her hiding place, unsheathed her sword, and landed in a three-point attack stance all in one fluid movement. The red-haired woman sitting in the stone chair before her was too surprised to attack, but had enough wits about her not to shout in panic, and thereby wake her brother.

Cosette looked at the man in the stone bed. The tattoos were different—he wore two dark green streaks running from each eye to each ear, his sister a single bright red line extending horizontally from her lips. But the man's hair was just as red as her sister's … _just as red as mine_.

Cosette lowered her blade. "You're part of the Ionsaithe clan?" she whispered—not out of respect for the weary, but of total shock and disbelief. She willed herself to take a few steps closer, show the woman her own flaming hair, the orange tattoos that signified her heritage, and she saw the look of silent comprehension dawn on her face. But the woman did not rise to embrace her—perhaps because she wouldn't, perhaps because she couldn't—she was sick, and Cosette could see a simple cane next to the chair.

The woman swallowed, and her eyes became downcast. "No," she sniffled. "The Ionsaithe clan doesn't exist anymore. We mingled too much with the other clans in order to survive—the power we once possessed is too watered-down to have any leverage now."

 _Mongrels_. Cosette's own words floated up from her memory. "My parents are Ionsaithe," she said. " _Pure_ Ionsaithe—and so am I. I'd been searching for them for the longest time, and I was told that they're still alive." She took another step closer to the woman. "Don't you see? We can still rebuild the clan! We can become the name that sent fear through Jehanna and Evermor, and chilled the blood of King Eadwyre himself!"

The sickly woman stood up with a vigor that belied her state of health. "Jehanna is gone!" she hissed through her teeth. "Evermor has been wiped out!" She coughed, and slowly returned to her seat.

"Haven't you been listening to me?" she said, as if it were as simple as adding one to one. "The Ionsaithe clan doesn't _exist_ anymore. Everywhere we settled, Peryite's plague followed. Our clan is all dead or dying because we chose to put our trust in that thrice-cursed monk."

Cosette didn't hear her sword slip out of her suddenly numb fingers and clatter to the stone. _Dead … dying?_ " … What does Orchendor have to do with all this?"

"You know better than any of us what the Ionsaithes are capable of, _pureblood_!" the Afflicted spat derisively. "And so did Peryite. He dreamed of making a plague that could bypass the most perfect magickal barrier that Tamriel could ever produce … and he succeeded.

"When Orchendor learned of his master's success, he rounded us up, and herded us like cattle into this crumbling ruin. He experimented on us, the damnable elf. He knew through Peryite of the Ionsaithe clan's special traits, and he wanted them for himself. And when Peryite discovered the elf's treachery, he turned his back on him … on us."

Cosette was only dimly aware of the red haze filling her vision; a burning hatred, hotter than any fire she'd conjured before, was coursing through her body like molten iron. _He experimented on dying human beings?_

 _On my kinsmen?! My_ family?!

"I don't know who or what brought you here," said the woman sorrowfully. "But if you said you were looking for your family … " She indicated herself and Kastus, shaking her head. "This is the best you're likely to find."

Cosette took a deep breath—she figured it was only fair she come clean. "Peryite sent me here," she said, and she registered the woman's look of surprise, and then resignation. "He wants me to kill Orchendor."

The woman bowed her head. "Then you've got a long road ahead of you," she said. "We aren't the only Ionsaithes in Bthardamz. The only way through to the Arcanex—to Orchendor—is through the lower district of the city, and that's where he keeps the worst of the Afflicted … that's where he keeps what's left of our clan."

Cosette felt her breath stop in her throat. She knew what was coming now—somehow, she knew what the answer to her forthcoming question was going to be.

"Will they recognize me?"

The Afflicted sighed. "Would it make you feel better if they did?"

Cosette balled her hands into fists, unwilling to accept this. "Then I'll have to kill them, won't I?"

She nodded. "There's no other way."

"But this is my _clan_ we're talking about!" Cosette protested. "I've been trying to bring the Ionsaithe name back to power for five years, and now you're telling me to wipe them out? That it was all for nothing?!"

"What else could you do?" the woman hissed. Her brother stirred in his bed, but did not wake, only mumbling slightly under his breath.

When the Afflicted next spoke, it was softer and heavier, filled with regret. "We were never a peaceful clan, you know. We were nomads, warriors—never truly at home unless we were on the battlefield. Orchendor saw our philosophy as a blight—but even with this accursed disease, we never forgot the truth."

Cosette frowned. "And what about you?"

A pause. "You heard me talking to Kastus," the Afflicted said. "I knew I was going to die in this place a long time ago—I've already made my peace. All I ask … is that you do me the same honor as you will the rest of our clan."

When Cosette looked back on it later, it still scared her how quickly she made her decision then.

She swallowed, and slowly nodded. "Better to die as a soldier … than to live as an animal," she said, retrieving her Forsworn blade from the floor.

"No," said the Afflicted. "Better to _die_ as an animal … than to live as a slave."

Cosette lifted her blade, trying to think about something else— _anything_ —besides what she knew she would have to do.

" … What's your name?" she asked after a while.

" … Marienne," said the Afflicted. She'd closed her eyes now, and looked peaceful.

"Marienne … that's a lovely name," Cosette said sweetly. The blade drew back.

Marienne Ionsaithe never made a sound as Cosette ran her through, the Forsworn sword piercing her heart and splintering her ribs. Blood pooled on the stone floor, and she smelled defecation.

It seemed to take forever for Marienne to die, but when she finally did, Cosette stood there for a long time, unable to comprehend what she had just done. Kastus continued to sleep, oblivious to what had just happened in the waking world.

Duphraime's words echoed in her mind. _Killing me would be an act of mercy_.

"Mercy."

_Better to die as an animal …_

" … than to live as a slave," Cosette finished. At length, she raised her blade, its crude ivory teeth still dripping with blood, and turned to the still-sound-asleep Kastus.

It was time to make a choice, she knew. The duty of the Cullers … or the survival of her clan.

This time, when Cosette looked back on it later, she was not scared by her decision at all. It was simply no contest.

* * *

The Cosette that emerged from the dwarven dwelling was far different from the one who had entered it some time ago. The potions inside had healed her melted hand, but the change was not so much physical as it was mental. Her round face was lined, the tattooed lips pursed and wrinkled, and her eyes smoldered with a flame more potent than any of her fire spells. Cosette wasn't furious—she wasn't even merely angry.

Marienne had pushed her over the edge; she was now in that state of mind where the cadence of her heartbeat and her footsteps were equally measured, and she imagined that if Vinye and Malys were here beside her, then her voice would be just as calm and even as well in spite of everything she'd seen and heard today.

In other words, Cosette was _angry_.

Kastus' blood still dripped from her swordblade as she continued on her way to the lower district of Bthardamz, never pausing in her step—not even to dispatch the two Afflicted guarding the doors. One went down to a salvo of firebolts before he could unsheathe his weapon, and she toppled off the edge. The other moved to intercept, and he too died, moaning faintly as Cosette ran him through without breaking her stride.

Cosette only stopped for a moment then, to catch her breath and open the door to the lower sections of the city. Her mind felt surprisingly clear—she had been worried that Marienne's words would have stirred it up into a maelstrom of thoughts and ill wishes to Orchendor.

Somewhat boldly, she privately hoped that the wood elf was ready for her.

Because she was definitely ready to face him now.

The double doors yawned open, and Cosette stepped over the threshold. There was no turning back now, she knew.

_What I do … I do for my family._

_For my clan._

* * *

The door opened into a large, well-lit arena—the largest one she'd yet encountered, even with the collapse of an entire corner. She imagined what it must have been like in its heyday—hundreds of Dwemer could easily have fit into this chamber.

Another totem had been erected on the plinth in the center, and a few Afflicted were gathered around it, praying silently. Even from here, Cosette could see they shared the same flaming red hair.

 _Ionsaithes_.

There was no way she could sneak up to them. However, Cosette did see a lever tucked away behind a bench. She got on all fours, and crept her way to the contraption, staying out of sight and earshot of the Afflicted. Silently, she pulled the lever, and quickly popped her head upward to see the effect.

She was still too slow—by the time she'd leapt up, the Afflicted were already dead; no less than four threshing blades had erupted from the plinth, and they wasted no time in scything through flesh and bone like gossamer, throwing parts of the Afflicted in every direction and spattering blood and green ichor everywhere.

Cosette failed to suppress a shudder at the inhumanity of the device; she had no more of an idea than they did that the mechanism would have worked the way it did. It certainly raised some questions about the original purpose of the arena as well. How cruel were the Dwemer to have even conceived of such a room? And how cruel was she to have used that contraption just now—on members of her own clan, no less—and not feel any sort of regrets whatsoever?

She wanted to break down then and there, she wanted nothing more than to just let it all out and cry and scream and tear this ruin down with her bare hands. But every time she tried, that anger just kept getting stronger.

Cosette was not angry at herself—how could she be? She had no idea what she was getting into. No—it was Peryite, and Orchendor, that damned traitor. She felt that anger boiling up inside her, and it was taking more and more of her concentration to keep a level head—to keep that anger controlled—each time she continued to slay a man or woman she might one day have called part of her clan.

Bthardamz, for its part, was also doing its best to try Cosette's patience. Just when she'd thought the ruin would never become any more confusing to navigate, she'd take another wrong turn, or go in a complete circle and not even know it. At least there were enough Dwemer automatons to provide a welcome respite from the Afflicted—and the Ionsaithes among them.

Once, a pair of Dwemer sphere-men had joined in a fight against no less than a dozen Afflicted over a vast bridge that spanned the entire cavern within the district. Cosette wasn't sure if she'd activated them, or if the Afflicted had—or even if the rolling golems had sensed their presence and activated on their own. By then, her controlled anger had streamlined her thought process to the point where the only thought in her mind was being repeated over and over like a war chant: _get to Orchendor_.

Finally—at long last—she reached the door to the Arcanex, and with a physical strength she didn't know she had after spending so much time fighting just about everything this ruin could throw at her, Cosette pulled it open so hard she could have sworn she'd heard the hinges strain against the stone.

The chamber beyond was unlike anything Cosette had yet experienced in Bthardamz; a natural, sunlit grotto dominated by many Dwemer towers rising from the waters below. The overgrowth of the vines in this chamber was worse than ever—some of the towers had been collapsed by the sheer weight of the thick plants.

But Cosette wasn't here to admire the scenery. Orchendor was here; some voice in her head was telling her this—he had to be. And so she continued on her way.

The spiraling ramps took her a hundred feet, perhaps more, above the bottomless pool, eventually taking her to the threshold of a massive hallway that stretched on into darkness. She could hear a noise in the distance, coming from somewhere on the other end, and it sounded vaguely familiar to her: a clump-clump-clump noise, like a giant blacksmith's hammer striking stone, as regular as her own heartbeat.

For one moment, the anger that had been festering in her head wavered slightly, and a comparatively tiny amount of fear crept into her mind. Those were footsteps she was hearing—giant metal footsteps.

And they were getting closer.

The dwarven centurion chose that moment to step out of the shadows. It stared down at Cosette with impassive golden eyes worked into the unmoving metal face. Twelve feet tall, and filling the hallway completely, the massive golem spread out its hammer-and-halberd arms, blocking Cosette from going any further.

Whether Orchendor had charmed this automaton into protecting him, or the centurion was still fulfilling its duties four thousand years onward, Cosette did not know, and neither did she care.

It was in her way.

The monstrosity tilted backward just a little bit, and only Cosette's experience with the Afflicted saved her; she erected a ward at the exact moment the behemoth expelled a blast of scalding steam from its mouth. She felt a vaguely choking heat wash over her, not unlike the volcanic springs of Eastmarch, but the ward had stopped the worst of the attack.

The centurion charged, but Cosette remained where she stood, analyzing the automaton. It was big, and she bet three to two it hit like an angry mammoth. But the golem had very few joints in its construction, and it moved and attacked much more clumsily than an ordinary human as a result. Four thousand years of continuous operation probably hadn't been kind to it, either.

Factoring in all that, Cosette guessed this whole automaton was one big weak point. But it was still more than twice her height, which restricted her choice of targets to only one logical selection.

She charged a fireball, and fired at the centurion's groin as she charged. Right as she drew level with the monster, Cosette drew her sword and swung at the gyros inside with all her might. There was a loud CLANG as ivory struck metal, and the vibrations from the impact nearly caused Cosette to drop the blade. But the impact had been sufficient; something shrieked within the casing, and the centurion tumbled down the stairs and into the water. The arms still continued to twitch, and steam still billowed from the body—it was still operational, but Cosette's swordsmanship had ensured it would never walk again.

The Breton did not even allow herself a moment of congratulations—she was nearer to her goal than ever, and she didn't know how much longer she could contain her anger before having to let it out on the next best thing to Orchendor. And so she continued on, and the darkness of the hallway swallowed her whole.

She didn't know how long she walked that shadowy passage, but eventually she saw the welcome glow of light appear in front of her. She turned right, and the hallway suddenly opened up into another massive arena. There were pipes everywhere—on the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor, all of them thick enough for her to crawl through. But Cosette's focus was on the massive totem of Peryite in the exact center of the room—the locus of the myriad of glowing green-and-yellow vines that wound around everything within reach.

And prostrated before it, apparently without any knowledge that she was behind him, was Orchendor.

Before Cosette could stop herself, the dam finally burst. The impassive expression she'd only just been able to maintain for the past several hours finally crumbled, and her lips split in a feral growl that changed into a terrible, strangled scream as she charged for the Bosmer.

"MURDERER!"

Orchendor turned around at the sound of Cosette's screech; if the Breton's mind had been more sound, she might have been worried at how composed the old, white-haired elf appeared as he stared death in the face.

But there was no stopping Cosette now. The crazed woman was dead-set on destroying him once and for all; intent on slicing his windpipe open and roasting his throat with the hottest flames imaginable, on painting every inch of Bthardamz with his blood and bile, tearing into his flesh with her blade and her bare hands if need be, and inflicting every possible method of brutal and bloody injury to that gods-damned _psychopath_ —

"Too much noise," said Orchendor calmly.

Suddenly, a familiar purple flame consumed him just as Cosette passed right where he'd been a second ago. One second later, both persons had disappeared from Bthardamz—indeed, from Mundus as they knew it.

* * *

The air had turned thick and choking, and Cosette had not expected to stumbled and fall upon dirt and loose rock. Shocked, she looked up; the ceiling of Bthardamz was no more, and in its place was the most hellish sky she'd ever seen—red and rusty brown with clouds, and crackling with lightning. She appeared to be on an island, except instead of water, there was searing hot lava.

 _Teleportation_ , she realized. _He teleported me! But … where to?_

"The Pits of Oblivion," Orchendor said, extending his arms around him. "Few mortals have the skills necessary to enter this place. Fewer still have the skills to survive."

He walked to Cosette, appraising her. "You're one of the Ionsaithe clan; I can tell by your hair. But there's something different about you, isn't there? Yes," he said, as Cosette stared defiantly back at him, hating him, "that power they talked about is much more potent within you, which must mean … you're a pureblood."

Orchendor grinned. "Peryite has given me a wonderful boon," he said, clapping his hands together. "You will tell me everything about this power, and after I've finished extracting it from your body, you will then join the rest of your clan as one of my Afflicted. It should only be fair for family to live with each other, shouldn't it?"

"Then you're going to have to kill me," Cosette snarled. "Because I killed them. All of them. I did it to save them from _you_."

Orchendor sighed. "You Ionsaithes always were a bull-headed bunch—always looking for an excuse to fight even in the midst of peace." He snapped his fingers. "But very well—I will grant your _dying wish_."

One flash of amethyst-colored flame later, and Cosette was back in Bthardamz—just in time to see Orchendor fire a spear of ice the size of a broadsword at her—larger and deadlier than Malys' frost magic could ever hope to be. Quickly as she could, Cosette fired two fireballs in response.

One fireball met Orchendor's ice spike, and the two missiles exploded against each other, sending shards flying every which way. The second fireball went straight for Orchendor. Its aim was straight and true—

—or at least, it would have been, if it suddenly didn't dissipate on contact with his black robes. This was so unexpected that for just one moment, Cosette forgot to be angry.

"How did you—"

"I learned much about your clan from Peryite," Orchendor gloated. "Their blood runs in my body—I'm just as much an Ionsaithe as you are! The greatest mage in the world could never touch me now!"

And just like that, Cosette was back to being angry again. "I'm more than a mage," she growled as she unhooked her Forsworn blade. "And you are no Ionsaithe, Orchendor. You're not even a half-blood, like all those Afflicted your master made me slaughter to get to you! You're a _mistake_ —you should _never_ have happened to these people."

She leveled her blade at the Bosmer. " _I'm going to make sure of that!_ " She screamed another war cry, and charged.

Orchendor was ready for her. Another click of his fingers, and another violet portal sent them into the Pits—but not before Cosette had sliced into his robe near the shoulder. The Bosmer grimaced, but did not cry out in pain.

Cosette didn't care. "That was just the first cut," she hissed. "Next time it'll be two. Then four, then eight. Each time I'm going to double the wounds on your body until you're _nothing_ but a _bloody stain on my blade_."

Orchendor stumbled to his feet. "Then don't waste time talking," he goaded her. "If you're so angry at me, then kill me already! I have better things to do then listen to talk of ven—"

He never finished his sentence. Cosette had lunged for him, too enraged to even speak. The Forsworn blade flashed once; it was the last thing Orchendor saw before his head parted company with the rest of his body. The slain wood elf toppled backward to the ruined ground, and his head sailed into the sea of lava with the force of the Breton's deathblow.

Cosette looked at the headless corpse at her feet, feeling an urge to say _something_ after what she had just done. Eventually her brain settled on, " _Never_ tell an Ionsaithe to kill you."

And with that pithy one-liner, Cosette felt suddenly lighter-headed, much more so than she had ever felt before her journey into Bthardamz—before Winterhold, even. She felt … relieved.

But that did not mean she was happy, not at all. After what she'd had to do to go this far, Cosette doubted she'd ever be genuinely happy again.

 _Orchendor is dead_ , she thought, bowing her head and trying to fight back the tears, _but so is my clan_.

 _The Ionsaithes are finished_.

A shadow filled the sky all of a sudden; Cosette looked up to see the same winged form she had seen when she'd inhaled those accursed fumes. Now that she saw it without their influence, it looked to her like a very large dragon, only with an extra set of arms under the wings, and much more serpentine and slender in its shape.

It dived downward, and alighted on the broken boulders with an earthshaking THUD. The neck dipped downward towards Orchendor's remains, and the beast opened its jaws and lazily extended a long tongue. With a casual flick, the slimy muscle looped around the wood elf's body, and dragged him into the maw, swallowing him in a gulp.

 _Well done, mortal_ , said the Daedric Prince of Pestilence, dipping its neck again toward Cosette. _All things are in their order, and Orchendor's soul has been consigned to these Pits for eternity. You may rest assured that his betrayal will be punished—and that your obedience has been rewarded._

A golden light gleamed at Cosette's feet, and she looked down to see a tower shield forming at her feet. It was definitely dwarven in construction, although it looked quite fragile in contrast to every other aspect of Dwemer construction. It was curiously shaped as well; Cosette noticed that it curved _outwards_ rather than inwards.

_So this is Spellbreaker …_

She carefully picked up the Dwemer relic, giving it only a cursory inspection before turning to the dragonlike creature before her. "You played a very dangerous game, Peryite," she said. "I hope you know that."

 _And yet you chose to play it as well._ Peryite tilted his head in mock curiosity. _Why, I wonder?_

Cosette felt her anger surge back up again. "I just butchered who knows how much of my clan in that damnable ruin!" she screamed. "And for what—for _this_?" She brandished Spellbreaker in her hand. "As far as I'm concerned, you're no better than Orchendor!"

 _Whatever connection you had to these Afflicted matters not to me_ , sneered Peryite. _Were you thorough in your task?_

Cosette did not answer him. She stared back at him with smoldering eyes, channeling every single scrap of hatred she had for this monster into her eyesight, imagining the Daedra withering before her like a burning juniper tree.

 _Hmm. That matters not, either. The Afflicted are mere vessels for my Blessing. It will spread to others through my own touch just as easily as theirs. As for Orchendor_ , _a more …_ able _Overseer shall take his place when the time comes. For now, all has been cleansed and ordered._

 _And_ you—Peryite pointed a claw at Cosette— _are free to seek your own fate. Perhaps we shall meet again … afterwards._

Cosette's voice was icy and venomous. "You can say what you want, but at the end of the day, I was just another weapon to you, wasn't I? Just another tool."

She took a step towards the dragon, not even blinking. "I didn't kill my clan, Peryite— _you_ did. Don't try to justify it, because I will _never_ let that stand. I don't care if you _are_ a Daedric Lord—if I ever see you again, I will _kill you_."

The dragon showed its serrated teeth in a horrible imitation of a smile. _Go now—embrace order and hard truth, mortal. Goodbye._

Before Cosette could say a word, the dragon had opened its jaws wide and swallowed her whole.

* * *

She smelled grass, and the sharp odor of juniper on the wind. _I'm … I'm alive?_

Her mind had not yet caught up with recent events—even now, distant parts of her were still a little slow in realizing that Peryite had transported her back to his shrine somehow—and had not, in fact, eaten her alive.

Cosette opened her eyes; she was back at Peryite's shrine. It was nighttime, and Secunda and Masser filled the sky completely. She turned her head to the left; Kesh was at his alchemy table. She turned to the right, and there was Duphraime, still prostrate at the withered tree. He appeared not to have moved at all since Cosette last saw him.

She stood up, leaning on the dwarven urn for support, and the Khajiit chose that moment to look up and see her.

"Ah! You have come back," he said, his voice strangely sad. "I am sorry about that one over there."

He pointed back towards Duphraime, shaking his head. "He succumbed within the last hour. His illness was too great. I can only hope that Peryite will provide him the respite he deserves."

Cosette felt numb as her mind caught up with what Kesh was telling her, and the Khajiit might as well have been talking to her from the other end of Skyrim for all the attention she was paying him.

Kesh passed a letter to her. "He wrote this, you know—a long time ago, in the hopes he would be able to see his family one day. Perhaps you could do Kesh a favor, and pass it along?"

Cosette unsealed the thick scroll of parchment with thick fingers, unrolled it, and began to read.

 

> _Beloved,_
> 
> _I know you thought me a fool not to leave Cul Aloue with you and the others, but I couldn't abandon our children to the plague. Whatever fates you may have guessed for us, however, are far from the truth, and I send this letter in hopes that it will soothe a worried mind._
> 
> _A week after you left with the rest of the healthy folk, I was patrolling the wall. Kelter had taken ill by then, and was unfit to ride. I prayed no bandits would be foolish enough to risk infection for our trifling goods._
> 
> _Then, against the last rays of the sun, I saw a lone figure headed towards the village—an elf called Orchendor, and with him came a change in destiny for us all. He called us to assemble, crowding us into Cullete's barn; she was the most badly stricken, and unable to move without being carried by Orchendor himself._
> 
> _There, the good elf gave us tidings that none could have guessed: he claimed that the sickness was not a curse on our village, as we were sure it had been—but a boon, a beacon that drew him to us. He told us that he served the Daedric Prince Peryite._
> 
> _I know what you're thinking—Cul Aloue would never suffer the heresies of the Daedra. But we did, and not only that, but we raptly heard what he had to say. Maybe you think we were too sick, too weak, but we weren't._
> 
> _Orchendor wanted to take us to a new home, a place where we could live out our days in worship of Peryite as his chosen—his Afflicted. No one refused. Some were carried in carts and litters, but we all made the trek with him across the border into Skyrim._
> 
> _We have since lived in refuge, inside the ruins of an ancient Dwemer city. There are others here, too, many with tales much like ours, bound together by our divine illness. But this "sickness" no longer weakens us, but give us strength. We heal ourselves with concoctions that other men would call poison. And Orchendor keeps us safe here, by the blessing of our Prince. I am now his Apostle, tasked to disseminate the teachings of Peryite to our Afflicted._
> 
> _So you see, beloved, the spirit of Cul Aloue lives on. I will never blame you for abandoning us that day, so long ago. I only regret that you were not likewise chosen to carry out His blessing._
> 
> _Peryite preserve you, and know your children are well._
> 
> _Duphraime_

Cosette let the letter fall silently to the ground. Her hands were quivering violently, and try as she might she couldn't bring herself to stop. The tears were falling freely now, and within moments she sensed Kesh backing away slowly as she began bawling her lungs out, dropping to the grass on all fours and wailing like a baby.

 _Orchendor_ , she thought, cursing the elf with every ragged breath she took. _Orchendor—it all led back to Orchendor_.

Eventually, Cosette stood up, and dried her eyes on her sleeve. Her gaze alighted on the diseased tree before her, and idly, she wondered how it came to be this way. Peryite was the prince of disease, it was true. But Cosette also knew the nature of the gods, and their dependence they had on the mortal races of Tamriel in order to survive. She had disposed of Orchendor, and—she thought with a pang of all the Ionsaithes she'd put to the sword—all his Afflicted. That had reduced Peryite's faithful severely; perhaps how many followers he had determined if the shrine looked to be in disrepair. If that was the case, and if she was correct, the only thing left to do was—

"This one is troubled?"

They were the last words Kesh ever spoke. At the sound of his voice, Cosette whirled around, sword in hand, and beheaded him in one swift stroke. Her teeth were clenched in raw, unrefined rage, and her eyes, still red from crying, flashed with white-hot fire. The last of Peryite's faithful dropped to the ground, and his severed head followed in short order.

But Cosette was not done. Sheathing her sword, she turned to the tree that served as Peryite's shrine. Fire appeared in both her hands, and her body began to shimmer with the same glow as when she'd faced that wispmother.

Bretons were naturally resistant to all manner of magickal attacks, and were capable of siphoning the magicka of incoming spells for a short time, negating them and adding their energy to their own. But the natural abilities of the Ionsaithe clan took the latter one step further: a pureblooded Ionsaithe could generate a ward around their bodies that could absorb not only magickal attacks, but all the natural magicka around them—the latent energy contained within the water, the trees, and all of Mundus—and channel it into their own body.

This natural magicka was the reason why a mage could cast a flesh spell or release a lightning bolt—it acted as a medium for the spell. The Ionsaithes' abilities created a vacuum where that natural magicka once was—magickal attacks could go out, but the only way they could go in was through that absorption ward.

It was the perfect magickal defense combined with an inexhaustible metaphysical battery—all in one neat little package. It was the reason why their clan was called Ionsaithe— _invincible_.

And right now, Cosette was about to use it to deal the deathblow to a Daedra Lord.

She raised her hands, and without further ado, released fireball after fireball at everything within sight. The alchemy table, the cooking pot, Kesh, Duphraime, and the shrine to Peryite all disappeared in her relentless salvo of fire. Dead flesh popped and sizzled, and wood and grass alike burned like kindling as the explosions rocked the hillside, drowning out her war cries.

This continued on for a full minute, although to Cosette it only felt like a matter of seconds—and yet she felt so tired now it might well have been for hours on end. Yet as she looked around her, surveying the carnage, resting her satisfied eyes on the smoking hulk of a stump that used to be Peryite's shrine, a new feeling took hold of her—one that she had not felt in years.

It was a feeling of anticipation—of looking forward to things to come.

_You cannot hide behind your family name forever ..._

_I have no family now,_ Cosette thought grimly. _I destroyed my own fortress, my only hope for the future of my clan._

_There's no point in hiding anymore._

Cosette left the desecrated shrine behind then, and set off on her way down the hillside. She never visited that part of the Reach again in her lifetime—nor did she have any wish to. She had better things on her mind right now.

It was time to fulfill her duty.

* * *

_Bruca's Leap Redoubt_

The camp was small, a mere outpost in comparison with the larger redoubts that dotted the Reach. But like all the others, it still served its purpose; it was only one of many gears in the Forsworn's crude but brutal war machine.

_The Forsworn number higher than the blades of grass. Kill one, and three more stand in their place._

There were only two guards outside the entrance to the cave. Neither of them saw Cosette's firebolts until they blew up in their faces, charring and melting them into grotesque imitations of a human head.

_The wind may howl at its highest, but the mountains will not yield—and the fire will only grow stronger._

_I am a Culler. I tend the fire that will burn the Reach._

The first guard was already dead, but the other was still alive, her eyes and mouth fused shut by the heat of the fire. She swung blindly with her dual swords, and her muffled screams were mixed with fury and pain. Cosette put her out of her misery in passing, drawing and quartering her in a matter of seconds as she continued on her way.

 _I am Ionsaithe. I want to be invincible—even if I don't_ wish _to be._

A taller person would have had trouble navigating the narrow passageway that led to Bruca's Leap. It was a crack in the rock, half as wide as she was tall. But the Bretons were just as suited for magic as they were for infiltration. Their physique was what made the Forsworn so dangerous—they were biologically perfect guerrilla fighters.

 _No … I_ am _invincible. But I will_ not _be the last one standing._

There were three Forsworn in the cave. One of them was already dead, Cosette could see, and laid out on a wooden table. The one standing over him was a briarheart—the most wonderful and terrible creation of the hedge-magic employed by the Forsworn. Neither living nor dead, but a force of destruction—a tornado of power and vengeance.

The irony did not escape her.

_I swore an oath that my blood would stain the land …_

The third Forsworn had already noticed her enter the cave, and brandished a sword not unlike her own in one hand and a rough stone axe in the other. She charged at Cosette, but the Breton had studied the attack patterns of the Forsworn inside and out, down to the angle of her enemy's arm.

Cosette, therefore, sidestepped the initial strike without any trouble, and disarmed the Forsworn by opening a gash in her right arm from wrist to shoulder. She instinctively screamed in pain, and Cosette used the opportunity to stick her free hand over the Forsworn's mouth—and bathed her esophagus in red-hot flames, killing her instantly.

 _… that the_ false _blood might one day fill the Reach to its length and breadth._

The briarheart readied an ebony war axe, and the cave exploded in light and sound as he blasted a thunderbolt at Cosette. Cosette ducked behind a tree, and the lightning blasted a stack of barrels to smithereens.

Quickly, before he could charge another spell, Cosette picked up one of the swords of the Forsworn she'd just killed, and hurled it at the briarheart, where the crude weapon lodged itself in his throat. As he staggered back, Cosette lunged forward, reaching out with her hand into the crudely carved recess into his chest, where his namesake was embedded—held in place with nothing but leather straps.

_That is the duty of all Reachmen._

With a mighty kick, she sent the undead warrior's body toppling over the railing, plucking his only link to life out of his chest. The briar heart was slippery in her hands, and its reddish, spiny edges still dripped with blood and viscera, but she didn't care.

She hefted the grisly object in her hand, and _squeezed_. Dark green juice ran in rivulets down her arm, and a sour smell pervaded the air of the cave as the heart was destroyed. The briarheart thrashed about in his death throes for a few moments longer, and was finally still.

Only then did the façade break, only then did the haze around her eyes fade—if only a little—as the cold reality of the situation began to take root.

_The duty of all Cullers._

Spellbreaker was hers, if only for the next few days—but thanks to her, the name Ionsaithe was little more than a memory now; that her mother and father were still alive out there somewhere did little to comfort her. And yet, Orchendor and his master were no more; Peryite's only known shrine and worshippers in Skyrim had been destroyed, although if he was half the Daedric Prince that Cosette had him for, Peryite would be spending the time he could have manifested on Tamriel instead torturing the Bosmer for the atrocities he'd committed against her clan.

For now, her anger was sated.

Cosette retrieved the sword she'd thrown at the briarheart, pulling it out of his windpipe with a loud squelching noise, and hooked it onto her belt. She looked around the cave, paying only the slightest bit of attention to the dead Forsworn as she made her way outside, to Whiterun and hopefully to Vinye and Malys. The Reachmen had fought well, she admitted—but not well enough. If they were to fulfill their duty, they would have to be stronger than this.

And she would keep becoming stronger—becoming _invincible_ —so that they would do the same.

_What I do … I do for my family._

_For the Forsworn._


	8. VII

VII

_Lake Yorgrim_

If there was one thing Vinye hated as much as a lie being disguised as truth, it was being surprised.

This was for a number of reasons, but the most prominent among them was that she liked to be prepared for absolutely everything. It came with the territory of having both a fondness for literature—and an eidetic memory to retain it all. Of course, both had their own shortcomings, but Vinye had decided long ago that the price to pay was well worth it. She'd never paid much heed to showing an interest in social gatherings, and in her case, being able to remember every single manuscript she'd read, and almost every detail of her life from birth—whether she wanted to or not—made her more equipped than most people when preparing to delve into someplace that had heretofore been largely unexplored.

But all the foreknowledge on Mundus could not have prepared her for what had happened in that infernal iceberg—the personages she had spoken with, or the quest with which she had been reluctantly saddled:

_"What do you want?" Her heart was still thundering in her chest from the sight, and she felt a rising fear as the glutinous many-eye focused its attention on her._

**_"I have been watching you since your conception, mortal. Three times now, you have borne witness to the power of the dragons—and you have also seen the power of the Dragonborn … as I once did."_ ** _The voice came from every direction, and spoke in every tone; some times it would be a booming roar that echoed off the ice, other times it would be an intimate whisper in her ear, as if to a lover._

_"What do you know of the Dragonborn?"_

**_"What I know of all things, mortal. I. Know._ ** **Everything** **_."_ ** _Something in the entity's boasting told Vinye it was not joking._

 **_"And that, mortal, is why you have caught my … eyes,"_ ** _it said, chuckling darkly at its own wordplay._ _**"There are many things you wish to know—even if you do not know the lust with which you pursue them."** _

_Vinye tilted her head. "The lockbox."_

**_"Yes … "_ ** _The voice was knowing, yet longing as well._ _**"Septimus has proved a useful tool thus far, but he knows not how little time he has left to be so. For too long have I waited for another to take up the burden he no longer can, and you have been …** _ **molded** **_… into something most exemplary."_ **

_She did not like the way the entity emphasized that one word._

**_"You will open this infernal lockbox,"_ ** _it said. It was equally a command as it was words of encouragement._ _**"And the truth you have been seeking will be yours … and yours alone."** _

_Vinye frowned. "Truth? … Are you talking about the Dwemer?"_

_The entity chuckled again._ _**"Hm. I know what you seek …** _ **Vinye** **_—even if you yourself do not. And it is something far more significant than the mystery that pervades their …_ ** **disappearance** **_."_ **

_And with that, the mass of eyes and tentacles had retreated into the crevice, leaving no sign that they were there …_

Vinye shuddered as she recalled the experience; so embedded was it in her mind that even her highly capable memory was unable to remember the details of her return trip to Windhelm. She had remembered asking Gort about a place called Raldbthar, and the ferryman had vaguely pointed her westward, in the direction of the Pale. Other than that, everything had been a total blur—perhaps that was the general effect of having a dialogue with a Daedric Prince, never mind one who had appeared literally out of nowhere.

At any rate, Vinye had thus found herself here, trudging her way south over the frozen edge of Lake Yorgrim. Night had fallen, and the snow was beginning to fall faster. The Altmer fervently hoped that Gort had pointed her in the right direction—she wasn't keen on freezing to death out here for nothing.

Her spirits leapt when she saw a small Dwemer tower in the distance, and she picked up her pace only a little. Closer inspection revealed two levers beyond the gate—one of them next to the gate, and the other in the middle of the floor. Multiple toothed gears surrounding it informed Vinye this must be a lift, much like in Rkund. However, she knew she wouldn't be able to reach it; the gate was locked from the inside. Lockpicks wouldn't help, either—if there was a keyhole, it was on the inside.

But all was not lost. Looking past the lift, Vinye could see a few flights of stairs leading further south. The snow made it hard to tell, but she couldn't think of any reason why those stairs wouldn't be of Dwemer design. Her spirits thus renewed, she ascended them three at a time.

After about a minute of climbing this endless staircase, a thoroughly winded Vinye finally saw the entrance to Raldbthar waiting for her. She reached in her backpack, and pulled out a bright green bottle. _Thank the Eight for stamina potions_ , she thought as she drank its contents, feeling the welcome taste of crushed honeycomb and essence of histcarp trickling down her throat—

—when the bottle suddenly shattered in her hands.

Vinye leapt back with a cry, and her fingers instinctively sparked with magicka. She only spared one glance at the remains of the bottle—enough time to notice the still-trembling arrow buried among the shards—and turned back to see several bandits barring her way into the ruin. Two of them were notching more arrows.

The Altmer was just barely able to dodge one of them—ducking into the snow and rolling to escape the salvo. She fired a lightning bolt frantically, aiming at nowhere in particular. The missile struck the golden doors, but Vinye had overcharged the bolt unintentionally in her panic; a small amount ricocheted off the door and into one of the archers. It didn't kill her, but it was enough to make her drop her bow. A second bolt from Vinye finished the job.

By now, the Altmer had dimly recognized a change in her physical and mental states, and she knew enough about the mortal body to recognize the characteristics of a "fight-or-flight" response: a change in the rhythm of her heart and lungs, and a change in her vision as well. Even though it was nighttime, she could see as though the sun was still shining, and she could feel her heart thrashing against her ribcage even through her thick coat.

The world around her had shrunk once more. As in her near-fatal climb to Rkund, everything around her retreated into pitch-black darkness—except for a slice of snow-covered hillside, and the two remaining bandits between her and Raldbthar.

The remaining archer fired another arrow. Vinye saw the arrow coming, and felt herself slowly moving out of the way to dodge it, as though she were wading through the swamps of Hjaalmarch. But she wasn't fast enough; the arrow just _grazed_ her on the shoulder—nothing too serious, but enough to draw blood.

She used one hand to apply healing magic to her shoulder wound, and the other to fire off another lightning bolt. This one was overcharged deliberately—and she felt her heart rise in relief as the bolt flash-burned the outlaw through his heart, bounced off his corpse to the other bandit—and her heart promptly sank again as the third bandit threw up a ward, nullifying the errant missile completely.

_He's a mage, too?!_

The bandit grinned lopsidedly, and cast a stream of sparks at Vinye with both hands. She had just enough time to erect a hasty ward, and initially she was successful—the sparks flowed over the magickal shield, seeking their target but finding none. But the ward was not perfect—Vinye could feel her arm numbing as the aftereffects of the electricity broke through the ward at the same time as her magickal reserves drained.

Quickly, Vinye thought back to her days at the Mage's Guild on Alinor: one morning, there had been a representative of the Aldmeri Dominion present in the lecture hall, and together, she and the Archmagus had performed a demonstration on applied magical skills on the battlefield.

 _When you cast a ward_ , the Archmagus had said in the middle of the demonstration, _you push the magicka out with your hand, and thus pushing magickal attacks away from you as well. But such a means of defense, while certainly most effective, has its drawbacks—chief among them being the amount of magicka necessary to maintain them._

 _Now,_ he had said, as he proceeded to cast one thunderbolt after another at the Justiciar, _one of the most fundamental rules of this world, not just in magic, is that every action has an equal and opposite reaction—give and take. Naturally, we as mages seek to find that unique situation where everything is given and taken in equal measure. Total balance: pushing, pulling, all at the same time—and this, students, is what our honorable Justiciar has presented to you here. While pushing my attacks away—watch the edges of her ward, watch how the construct seems to distort and swirl towards the middle—she has simultaneously pulled it back in, focusing it back towards the middle, the source—and thus add the magicka I spent attacking her to her own previously depleted reserves._

He had then laid a crate of glowing, foul-smelling eggs, each the size of a fist, before the class. _You will pair off, and practice your wards together. Each of you will take one egg, and hold it between you while simultaneously casting a ward in that same hand. I warn you_ , he had said with a slight smirk, _this will likely be messy._

_Remember. Push and pull._

_Push and pull …_

By the time Vinye had figured it out, she'd been covered nearly head-to-toe in the remains of countless smelly eggs. She smiled wistfully for only a moment as the memory pervaded her mind, and then curled her fingers only slightly.

The ward responded; the edges flared for only a moment, and then began to spiral inward like water circling a drain, slowly but surely. The sparks, caught up in the magickal "current", went with the flow towards the center, but Vinye wasn't paying attention—all she noticed was one of those luminescent eggs in her mind, being pressed against her by an invisible hand, both doing their damnedest not to get splattered—

Eventually, Vinye felt a tingling in her once-numb arm as the electricity flowed through her. The bandit—perhaps he'd studied enough magickal theory to know what was going on—had stopped his onslaught at that point, and was looking at Vinye slack-jawed.

_Too late._

It was Vinye's turn to grin now. "Give and take," she said simply, and fired a bolt point-blank down the thug's mouth. His skull expanded for only a moment, and then blood began leaking out of his mouth and ears. His eyes exploded into paste with the surge of energy, and blood began leaking out there, too. One last bolt from Vinye sent him tumbling into the snow, and the dying bandit left a broad swath of red in his wake as he rolled down the hill.

Vinye exhaled, allowing herself some time to rest and replenish her strength. Once she felt sufficiently charged—and once she'd willed her heart back to its normal pace—she swung open the door to Raldbthar and slipped inside.

* * *

As soon as she entered the ruins, Vinye could tell there were more bandits about—they'd clearly made themselves at home here. Barring her way were two jets of flaming gas, and she noted amusingly how they'd been adapted to put some meat on a spit, prop it up a distance away from the nozzles, and let it roast from there. She felt her stomach growl instinctively, and she plucked a particularly large salmon off the spit, and wrapped it in her pack for later.

A flurry of movement caught her eye; she whirled to the left, just in time to see a bandit rising from his bedroll to confront this new intruder. He pulled out a pale bronze dagger shaped like a feather—elven, she thought apropos of nothing.

"Now ain't this a surprise," the bandit sneered at Vinye sarcastically—and then he charged.

Vinye sidestepped him effortlessly—whoever trained this bandit was no soldier; even a mudcrab could have read his movements and acted accordingly. She didn't even need to look his way to electrocute him with a lightning bolt.

She stepped up to his carcass, reaching out to pry the elven dagger from his fingers, and then something completely unexpected happened: a mechanical whirring noise came from inside her pack—and then a series of numerous, snakelike cords burst from within and buried themselves into the bandit's body.

Confounded, Vinye tried pulling herself away, but to no avail—only when the tendrils retracted from their target with a faint slurping noise did she finally stumble backwards, shock painted all over her face.

 _What in the name of Oblivion?!_ Vinye quickly emptied her pack; her potions, drawstring purse, and various ingredients were scattered pell-mell over the stone floor. Then her fingers ran across something metal, and the Altmer pulled out a jumbled collection of metal pipes. A faint sloshing noise could be heard within.

It took her awhile before she remembered Septimus had given this to her early that morning. What was it he had said? " _Seek you thus your wind-swept children, and bid these tubules partake of their life-drink_."

 _Wind-swept children …_ Vinye yanked off the bandit's cured leather helm, and beheld two ears with chestnut-brown tips. _A Bosmer_ , she realized.

_Is that what I have to do? Collect the blood of elves?_

But just as her heart had risen upon this apparent breakthrough, it sank once more at the enormity of such a task. _I could be at this for years!_

There were definitely plenty of elves inhabiting Skyrim, she knew, but they were hardly all that spread out, either. The Bosmer had been easy enough, albeit a stroke of luck—a _very_ lucky one, Vinye thought; in addition to that elven dagger, he'd been carrying a fully stocked case of lockpicks with him, and those had already come in useful in picking her way through several chests and a gate.

She continued refreshing her memory as she continued delving into Raldbthar, disposing of its population of bandits along the way. Dunmer were plentiful in Windhelm and Riften—besides which … _no. No. Absolutely not_ , Vinye thought, as a vision of Malys swam in her head—not unless she had absolutely no choice. Orsimer, however—

A screech of metal on stone interrupted her train of thought as she approached an inclined hallway; a spinning thresher blade burst out of a groove in the ramp and blocked her path. Vinye took stock of her surroundings; there was no way around—the hallway was too thin to afford any safe refuge from the revolving blades—and no lever she could see to deactivate the trap. Still, there had to be some way through—

Vinye blinked, and subconsciously charged a lightning bolt. She prepared to run as she did so—she was about to do something incredibly stupid and dangerous, and almost certainly at the expense of her life.

Remembering her experience with the dwarven wasp automatons in Rkund, she fired at the base of the rotor, and was immediately rewarded by a shriek in the mechanism. The blade separated from its track, and Vinye hastily ducked out of the way, though not quickly enough; the destroyed trap opened a sizable gash in her arm as it spun out of control and deep into the stone hallway.

Resealing her wound with some restoration magic, Vinye resumed her journey and her recollection. _Where was I?_

Orsimer, yes—the Orcs preferred to keep to themselves, and inhabited a few strongholds spread throughout Skyrim. They didn't like outsiders, Vinye remembered from some tales Urag had told her; the master of the Arcaneum had also hinted that he was quite _nice_ for an Orc. And if that was the case, she wasn't keen on wanting to seek them out.

She navigated through a series of pistons and firetraps, no doubt designed to push any unwary adventurers into a fiery death. And if they were savvy enough, the dwarven sphere and its retinue of spiders that patrolled the area were surely more than enough to finish the job—but _surely_ they didn't account for a mage like Vinye.

She aimed for the sphere first—a lightning bolt to the crossbow fixed to the automaton's left arm summarily disarmed it. A second and third bolt was directed at the rolling wheels that served as their feet; each one blasted at the hub of a wheel, and the unbalanced sphere fell flat on its metal face. Vinye overcharged her last bolt, electrocuting both spiders before they had a chance to leap for her, and she was showered in metal parts. A little more healing magic soothed the bruises left behind, and she continued on.

Lastly, there were the Altmer. Vinye wasn't all that willing to use herself as a test subject to that end—surely if that was true, this strange little machine of Septimus' would have drained her of every drop already, as it had that unfortunate wood elf. But the fact remained that very few Altmer remained in Skyrim—and even then, the chances were that they were part of the Thalmor, who had withdrawn most of their forces after the success of the Stormcloak Rebellion, leaving only a small occupation within their embassy near Solitude.

 _There's got to be more to it than this_ , Vinye thought in frustration. _I'm missing something here …_

_Think, Vinye, think … what else did Septimus say?_

The aged wizard's croak echoed through her mind once more as her eidetic memory replayed that encounter in the iceberg. _The progeny of the First Folk is scattered to the winds_ , he had said. _Seek you out the forest and the snow; sift you through the dung and the ash._

It was a riddle, Vinye realized with a gasp. They were _elves_.

"Ash" had to be the Dunmer—the Red Year had made that more evident than ever, she thought wryly. "Forest" was wood—the Bosmer—and Vinye was already set on that front. "Dung" … _dung, what would be dung_ , she thought—

Of course—the Orsimer! She recalled a passage from a short book she'd read on the ancient Aldmer, on how the Daedra Boethiah had eaten his rival Trinimac. His remains were excreted in front of Trinimac's followers, and they became Malacath, patron of the Orcs. The Aldmer still loyal to Trinimac were changed into the Orcs, she recalled, and rubbed the remains of Malacath on their skin as a sign of their continued devotion.

That just left one more … "snow"—and as soon as she thought the word, Vinye felt a deep pit open up in her stomach, and felt a cold sweat falling down her back.

 _Falmer_.

Vinye had heard plenty about the snow elves. She knew of how they had risen up against the ancient Atmorans, the progenitors of the Nords, and razed the ancient city of Saarthal in the Merethic Era. She knew of how the Atmorans had paid them back in kind, driving them underground, and—it was thought—to extinction. But there had been whispers in Skyrim of late; tales of white monsters in the night, of piles of blood and gore—and of people who always seemed to just … _vanish_ , never to be heard from again.

Now, as one more of Septimus' cryptic lines wormed its way into Vinye's mind, she suspected these stories might actually be true.

_Begin you hence at Raldbthar … the first and second inside the third …_

The _first_ elf had been a Bosmer. The _second_ … Vinye gulped as she approached the lever at her feet.

In less than a minute, the nature of her quest had changed significantly. Before, it had only been a matter of whether she'd make it to Whiterun in time to catch up with Malys and Cosette. Now, the question seemed to not be when Vinye would make it _there_ —but _if_ she would make it out of _here_ alive.

She laughed dully. _I could use a little bit of J'zargo's bravado right now_ , she thought.

Steeling her nerves as best she could, she nudged the lever, and the lift sank into the bowels of Raldbthar.

* * *

The first thing she noticed when she forced open the door exiting out of the lift was the smell—musty and cloying. And if it was anything else, Vinye might have been sick all over the floor. But the smell instantly brought back memories of that one lesson in Alinor—of the same eggs she'd been coated in after hours and hours of practice.

Further down the hallway, Vinye could see the source of that stench littering the floor: a glowing, slightly pulsing sac. A thresher blade had evidently tried to remove this infestation, but the eggs were either so tough or so numerous that the blade was permanently stuck in the mass. She gave the scene a wide berth anyway—no sense in taking chances with either of these things.

She pulled open another door, and was greeted with a massive cavern. The lamps high above were not burning, and the entire chamber was instead illuminated by the natural, bluish-green light of yet more of the wriggling egg sacs.

Scurrying among these natural towers like vermin were the Falmer—or, Vinye corrected, whatever the Falmer had become. Their snow-white skin had become a wrinkled, sickly gray, and was stretched taut over their bald, eyeless heads. Two large slits for nostrils ran from forehead to mouth, which was filled with much more teeth than a normal mouth ought to have, and each one of them was as sharp as a razor, Vinye suspected.

One of the Falmer was crouched over the remains of what looked to be an ill-fated pack of bandits. He held a crude-looking dagger in his bony, clawed fingers, and was idly skinning one of the corpses. Vinye saw ragged piles of cured leather and reddish lumps of meat on a makeshift tanning rack nearby, and again fought the urge to vomit.

She could see more Falmer as she looked around the chamber; all of them were tending to various duties. Some were crouched over crude campfires in heavy-looking tents; others were plucking mushrooms from a vast patch of dirt, and a pair even appeared to be eating a meal in the form of a dead skeever, talking between bites in a language of incomprehensible growls and clicks. None of them appeared to have noticed her, which puzzled her briefly until she remembered that the Falmer were blind—they _couldn't_ see her at all.

Vinye felt a brief upsurge of scholar's opportunity at the sight. Perhaps if the circumstances were different, she could have taken this moment to study them; she regretted not having any paper in her pack for taking notes. An entire culture—if an absolutely _savage_ one—had developed in the wake of the Dwemer's disappearance, right under Skyrim's collective nose, and she wondered if she might be the only living person in the province right now to know that the Falmer were not only surviving—but _thriving_.

 _If only the Synod Council could see me now_ , Vinye thought with savage pleasure. She had studied there, once, but had tired of the endless political undercutting after only a month. The College of Whispers hadn't offered much more comfort for her—she didn't last that long there _either_ , after experiencing nothing but one lie over another being accepted as fact, and being silenced at every turn by pompous, self-proclaimed rivals for all her efforts.

For now, though, she decided to continue on with her journey. The Falmer could wait—another, more mysterious race awaited her, and Vinye's thoughts of the Synod and the College of Whispers had steeled her resolve more than any dose of J'zargo's bravery.

 _The mystery of the Dwemer will be_ mine _to uncover_ , she thought resolutely.

She stepped into the cavern, not daring to make a sound—partly out of respect for the rudimentary culture around her, but mostly for her own safety. The Falmer had been living underground for so long, their sight had deteriorated to nothing—but Vinye had seen from a cursory glance just how large their ears and noses were, and she suspected that they didn't _need_ to see her. They could easily hear her just fine, and likely smell her as well, and so she had to be extremely careful.

An idea came to her at that moment—and were it not for her prior experience with that one lesson in Alinor, she would have immediately cast it aside as the most ludicrous one she'd ever had. But even as she pondered the outlandishness of it all, she knew there was no other way she'd be able to make it through.

And so, with a look of disgust on her face, she silently crossed over to one of the egg sacs, one that was devoid of any Falmer lurking nearby. Bracing herself, she quickly sliced open the sac with her newly acquired elven dagger, watching the slimy eggs spill out of the tear for only a moment before plunging her free arm into the sac, all the way up to her shoulder. She felt the warm, viscous substance cling to her arm for a few seconds before she pulled it out, and then it was the other arm's turn to soak inside the slime.

After that, Vinye dipped her boots inside—and her legs, for good measure—before stripping to her underclothes and coating her robes and effects in the muck. Last was, reluctantly, her face and hair—she still had enough vanity to worry about any potential damage to her roots before liberally applying the goop over every square inch of her head. The smell was almost overpowering, but Vinye hoped that would work in her favor; now, she could walk among the Falmer for as long as she wanted—all they would smell was a burst egg sac, and with any luck, there was enough dried slime covering her boots to muffle her footsteps as well.

Once she was sure her impromptu "makeover" was complete, she continued on her way.

She passed more Falmer going about their business as she slowly, silently ascended to the upper levels of the cavern. There were several tents located here; one was larger than the others, and under it stood a Falmer that must have been the chieftain of this particular "tribe." A full head taller than the others, he wore the head and jaws of some large insect over his head, and his body was encased in spiky, slippery-looking armor. An axe in the shape of a crablike claw hung at his side. The smell coming off him was appalling—even worse than the secretions Vinye had coated her clothes in, and that was saying something.

For only a moment, the two elves had stared each other eye to nonexistent eye, and the effect had been more than a little disquieting. Then he had turned away, and Vinye was left to stare back at him, heart thundering so loudly that it was a wonder the Falmer didn't hear _that_.

Only many hours later, when she left the cavern on tiptoe and barred the door behind her, did Vinye exhale in relief. She relaxed, and turned around to continue her journey—and ran slap bang into a Falmer.

The scream she let out was more than enough to rouse all of Raldbthar.

Both Vinye and the Falmer leapt back in comical near-unison, each clearly as surprised as the other. Vinye recovered a split second before the snow elf, however, and that split second saved her life. Before the Falmer could unsheathe his cruel-looking sword, Vinye had burned right through his chest with a lightning bolt, and the creature toppled to the floor with a choking gasp. As if they sensed the creature's death, the tubules strained inside Vinye's pack again, ripping through the seams and shooting straight for the Falmer's body of their own accord. They embedded themselves inside the flesh, and proceeded to extract his blood.

As the pipes finally retreated back into her pack, Vinye knew that she had to rush onward—if the Falmer didn't hear her screaming before, they would certainly have heard her lightning bolts. They knew someone was here now, and all the glowing eggs in the world wouldn't change that. They were on high alert now, and so she had to be as well.

Two more Falmer appeared before she had a chance to catch her breath. It seemed they still knew how to use magic; one of them held a flaming purple sword in her hand—a bound weapon, Vinye remembered, not unlike those used by soldiers in the Dominion—and was covered in swirling clouds of ice shards. A cascade of sparks erupted from the Altmer's hands, and the Falmer screeched in her death throes as her wizened form sizzled and popped under the onslaught before she could get any closer.

The other Falmer held a crude bow in his hands, though, and was firing one arrow after another—an astonishing feat, Vinye thought, considering they were blind. Even more astonishing was that they weren't all that far off the mark, either. But superhuman senses couldn't excuse the fact that these arrows were just as crude as the bow they were being released from; the first few broke apart when they hit the carved corridor behind her.

Acting on impulse, and not having enough time to form a ward, Vinye grabbed the fallen snow elf's body by the scruff of the neck, and held it in front of her like a shield. She heard several more arrows thud into the carcass, and she pushed forward slowly with grim satisfaction, waiting for her strength to replenish so she could get back on the offensive.

The Falmer seemed to get wise to Vinye's strategy, though; his next arrow sailed into his dead companion's neck—but the arrow broke through on the other side with enough force to bury itself a good three inches into Vinye's palm. The Altmer yowled in pain, and tried to let go, but to no avail, the barbs had sunk too far into her flesh.

Eventually, though, the shoddy arrow snapped in two, and the Falmer's body finally crumpled to the ground, full of arrows. The archer followed not long after; one lightning bolt from Vinye blew his bow apart, and another blew his shriveled brains all over the corridor.

Vinye pulled out the arrow, gnashing her teeth all the while. The crude missile felt organic, like it had been created from the bones and innards of some unknown animal. The forked tip dripped with a thick black liquid.

 _Poison_.

Even as she mouthed the word, Vinye felt her vision beginning to go. The halls of Raldbthar swam before her eyes, distorting into shapes she could not recognize. Her arms and legs felt like they were made of pastry, and within a few steps they were incapable of supporting her frame. She tried to cast a healing spell, but found that she could not lift her arms at all.

_I have to … get … away …_

She stumbled into a small alcove, feeling cold sweat break out all over her body, and she immediately began to shiver. She tucked herself in as far as her slender Altmer body would allow, and curled into a ball as darkness washed over her …

* * *

_" … Vinye? Come here, Vinye!"_

_A dulcet, stately voice echoed in the chamber. From her vantage point, she could see the glass-like spires of Firsthold gleaming in the setting sun, rising a thousand feet tall or more into the sky. Against the golden waters of the Abacean, the panorama looked positively alien._

_Her tiny footsteps echoed on the mirror-polished stone floor as she obediently ran over to the blonde-haired woman in navy blue robes that just entered. They embraced in a warm but all-too-brief hug._

_"It's time for your lessons, dearest," the woman said perfunctorily after smoothing her hair. "And speaking of lessons, what did I tell you about running in the hallways?"_

_The little girl let the question hang deliberately before answering. "'S not ladylike," she said, pouting slightly as her mother led her out of the room._

_"Proper young ladies do not scamper around like the beast-folk, dear," said the woman, nodding to emphasize her point. "You are an Altmer, and you must learn to carry yourself as such … "_

_…_

_… "Spell combination," said the Archmagus in the main assembly hall of Firsthold's Mages' Guild, clapping his gnarled hands together as if it was self-explanatory. He indicated the Justiciar next to him, pointing out the ethereal sword in his hand that burned purple and sparked with vivid blue energy._

_"Thus far, we have been teaching by the book, as it were," he continued with his lecture. "But there are no books in the battlefield. The enemy will not stop to lecture you as I am now. And yet, the enemy abides by the book as well. So we must adapt. We must be more creative, unexpected, in order to achieve victory."_

_The young elf, barely ten years old, took notes—already seeing ideas for potential combinations laid out before her._

_"We have one hour left to us in our lesson. You will have until then to develop, perfect, and demonstrate your own unique spell," said the Archmagus. "Your time starts now … "_

_…_

_" … And so you see our position, Madam Emissary," said the soldier at their door. She listened only half-heartedly, concentrating more on her dinner. "We believe your presence there would be most beneficial for the Dominion."_

_The woman nodded. "I'll see what I can do. The High Chancellor will have my decision by tomorrow morning." The two elves saluted each other, and the woman returned to the table._

_"So," said the justiciar across from the girl, "how are your lessons progressing, Vinye?"_

_She waited to swallow her bite of jazbay crostata before answering, she was a growing young lady, after all, and she was expected to behave in such a manner. "The Archmagus taught us how to combine spellwork today," she said dutifully. "It was a little strange at first—I never read anything about it, so I thought it couldn't be done, or that I'd have to be a really powerful wizard to learn it."_

_"And the Archmagus told me you rose to the challenge very well, dear," beamed her mother. The girl looked at her in surprise at this bit of information. "Why don't you tell Papa the spell you made?"_

_"It's just a lightning ward," the girl shrugged. "The Archmagus says we have to outsmart our enemies, and I thought if our enemies knew we used a lot of magic, then they'd use something to stop us from using magic, like lightning. So I made a ward to protect against lightning better."_

_The justiciar arched his pointed golden eyebrows. "Show me," he said encouragingly._

_"Okay." She rose from her seat, and spread out her arms._

_Silver flames erupted from her left hand, and spread out around her in a circular shield. Her right hand sparked with electricity, and the sparks wove into her ward, tinting it a faint purplish-blue._

_She squeaked as the justiciar suddenly sent a tiny bolt of lightning at her. The worst it would have done was left her arm numb for a few hours, but she panicked all the same. The bolt bounced off the ward, shattering a bottle of spiced alto wine, and the ward destabilized within seconds._

_"Orinwe!" The woman looked at her husband with a mixture of shock and grudging admiration. "That is most unbecoming for an elf of your position! Think of the example you are setting for our daughter!"_

_Orinwe appeared to consider this. "I'm_ thinking _she'll make for a fine Justiciar herself one day," he said with a roguish grin. His wife tried to fight it down, but eventually she couldn't resist a small chuckle._

_"The Archmagus has also informed me how far you've come in your overall studies, Vinye," she continued, clearing her throat delicately. "I think you've earned yourself some time away from the Isle, don't you think?"_

_The girl's face brightened, and she let out a gasp. "Can we go to Elsweyr?" she said excitedly. "I want to see their acrobats again!"_

_"Vinye, dear," her mother simpered, "you've been to Elsweyr three times this last year, and twice in a row to Corinthe. Don't you want to explore more of the Dominion's territories?"_

_Her face fell at the words, and her mother appeared to take notice. "Oh, don't give me that look, Vinye," she said kindly. "I have just the place in mind … "_

_…_

_… She gaped at the immense trees spread out before her. Even the towers of Firsthold weren't half as tall as these monstrous creations of nature. Everything was a mixture of lush greens and muted browns, and colors she'd never dreamed possible were scattered here and there in the form of exotic flowers and birds._

_Forgoing any semblance of her ladylike reserve and composure, she finally managed to close her jaw, and she spoke in an awed whisper, "Valenwood is_ amazing _."_

_Her father chuckled. "I did tell you," he said knowingly as they stepped off the boat and onto the land of the wood elves …_

_…_

_… She picked at the meat suspiciously, as though worried it would come to life and bite her fingers off._

_"Vinye, dearest, is something wrong with your food?" Her father had finished the last of his salmon, and was now looking at her with a concerned look on his face. They had been staying in Falinesti for two days now, and Orinwe hadn't seen his daughter eat anything in that time._

_"I don't trust it," Vinye said skeptically. "What if it's one of them? The elves eat each other here; it's disgusting!"_

_Orinwe cleared his throat. "Now, Vinye, just because the Bosmer have a religious obligation to do such a thing, does not mean they do it all the time. Just as some elves choose to worship Talos, distasteful as the practice may be, they are a very select few. And do act your age, please; you are fifteen years old! You're almost ready to be the youngest Justiciar that Firsthold's produced in a hundred years!"_

_Vinye groaned under her breath. "I wish Mother were here."_

_"As do I, my dear. But your mother has some very important business to attend to in Alinor."_

_He looked up suddenly, and his face grew tense. "And speaking of business … "_

_Two Justiciars had appeared beside their public table. They, like Orinwe, were dressed in Bosmeri plainclothes. None of them saluted, nor did they speak, but the glint in their eye was more than enough to suffice._

_"Vinye, dear, I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave for the night," he said, turning back in her direction. "Go back to our room, and get back to your studies."_

_"But Father—"_

_"Vinye." Orinwe's sharp bark did not invite argument. She stared at him for a few eternal moments longer, before pushing her untouched plate of food away, and trudging away from the marketplace to their residence …_

_…_

_… She did not get to sleep that night. No matter how she tossed and turned, her eyes simply refused to close. Her father had never raised her voice before at her; why the sudden change in mood?_

_Was it something she had said, something she had done? Or was there something else at work here? Valenwood was Dominion territory, she knew, so Justiciars—even in uniform—were not exactly an uncommon sight. And yet, they seemed to know each other on some level … even though she knew she and her father had arrived alone._

_A small puff of noise in the distance distracted her from her train of thought, like a log popping in a fire. There were shouts in the street below._

_Another puff. Then a third, a fourth, and suddenly they were coming in rapid succession—like a rainstorm beating on the roof._

_The shouting became screaming, and the screaming became louder and louder—_

_And then there was chaos._

_The noise came first—an invisible, roaring wall of a thousand sounds; the BOOMs and BANGs of explosions both near and far, the continued screams of the population outside, and something else, magnified over the pandemonium: a deep voice, bellowing indistinctly over the noise that sounded vaguely familiar to her._

_What is going on?!_

_The lights followed just behind, and suddenly a massive explosion rocked the hollowed-out tree where she had been resting. The floor-to-ceiling window glowed with blinding illumination, and shattered into a thousand pieces. She rose from her bed, and peered through the wreckage._

_For a solid minute, she wondered if the forces of Oblivion itself had descended upon Falinesti. She had heard chilling tales of the Oblivion Crisis, of how the hordes of daedra that had poured through had toppled Crystal-Like-Law—the sacred tower built by the Aldmer of long ago—and slaughtered all who had sought refuge inside._

_But even that could not compare to_ this _._

_The earth heaved, and light and sound filled her world. Her senses were being oppressed in every direction—the fires blinded her, the screams and explosions deafened her, and the smoke and stench of burning wood and flesh choked her. Dozens of shadowed forms flitted about the treetops and the trunks. Some of them carried swords, daggers and axes, hacking more of the figures to pieces, while others leapt upon them with open mouths and claws, physically tearing the monsters to shreds and consuming the still-warm remains—_

_The voice boomed out again, and this time she could make out individual words over the din. She listened intently, doing her best to filter out all the background noise—_

_"Purify the land with our fire!" the voice roared, amplified by some arcane magic. "The lives and lands of these beasts are nothing to us. We shall reign supreme!"_

_She felt her breath seize up in her lungs, and felt sweat dripping down her neck. In spite of the hellish scene around her, her skin felt clammy, cold as the grave. She knew that voice. She had heard it for all her life, congratulating her, encouraging her to be better. Tears began streaming down her cheeks, only to be evaporated by the heat and stinging her eyes even more—_

_Please stop, she thought, beginning to convulse uncontrollably. Please stop … please stop … please stop_ please stop _**please**_ _—_

 _"_ _**STOP!** _ _"_

_No one would ever have hoped to hear her, but she did not care; a desperate, childish fury had latched into her mind with an iron grip, and now she behaved like a rabid animal. Her hands blossomed with magic, more than she had ever produced thus far in her short life; her entire body crackled with transient lightning—_

_She did not remember striking out at the nearest figure to her, or the fleeting relief she felt when she saw it crumble into dust from the force of her lightning attack. She did not remember doing the same thing to the next figure, or the next one—or any after that; all she wanted to do was to make it stop, to make everything peaceful and quiet again—_

_It seemed to take forever before the chaos finally diminished, though the fires still raged all around her, and she finally gained the courage to limp around the devastation. Bleeding bodies, parts of bodies, and piles of ash filled the streets. The swirling embers half-blinded her, and she could make out very little detail, but a faraway part of her noted how many of these bodies seemed to be alarmingly close to her._

_Did_ I _do all this?_

_She wiped her eyes and blinked a few times, clearing all the soot and spots from her vision. It wasn't much, but she could see clearer now._

_When she looked down at the bodies, though, she wished she were blind._

_Dozens of Bosmer were scattered about the streets of Falinesti. Some of them carried flesh wounds from physical weapons, others from teeth and claws, and still others were charred all over with burns from the fires. But the vast majority carried small, concentrated burns all over their bodies, and she recognized them as her own lightning._

_It was the other bodies, though, that left her frightened and shaking like a scared little toddler._

_Once, their armor had been polished to a mirror-sheen, the individual moonstone feathers gleaming green and gold in the sunlight. Their robes and cloaks were normally impeccably pressed and surgically clean. Tonight, however, they were as charred, burned, and shredded as the bodies that wore them._

_Thalmor, she thought. All the Thalmor … all the Bosmer … everyone …_

_I did this. All of it._

_And as she brooded over the magnitude of what she had just done, a new, more horrifying thought came to her._

_Father—!_

_It took much less time to find him than she had been anticipating, but when she did, she wished yet again that the gods would smite her and take her sight, even her life—but even then, the sight of her father lying there, bloodied and mangled, his face forever frozen in that mask of terror, would be burned into her mind for all her years—_

_It was too much. She dropped to her knees, and cinders and ash be damned, she let the tears flow freely, howling in strangled fury, unwilling to accept the truth—_

_The truth._

_She stopped crying then, a strange thought creeping into her mind. Truth. The word had an unfamiliar meaning to her now._

_What is truth?_

_She had come to Valenwood alongside her father, and while she had earned herself a brief respite from her studies at the Mages' Guild, her father had come here for business, he had said._

_But who in Oblivion could call such destruction_ business?

_" … They are nothing to us! … We are supreme! … "_

_And then, the final truth of this crime came to her, and tears sprang to her face once more—but this time they were not of sorrow, but of a rage that burned hotter than all the fires around her._

_That was his voice._

_He had done this. Her own father._

_"You'll make for a fine Justiciar one day … "_

_This was what they wanted me to be? They wanted me to kill—to destroy all this—_

_Her eyes blazed with fire and lightning. They lied to me._

_My own father_ lied to me!

_Without thinking, she burned a bolt into her father's face, then another, and another—over and over until his face was unrecognizable among all the burn scars. Only then did her anger die down, replaced by an eerie calm, like the silence before a storm._

_Attempting to think more rationally, to calm herself even further, she paced the bloody streets and pondered. I can't go back home anymore, she realized. If they find out—if Mother finds out—they'll kill me. But I can't stay here … I can't go to Elsweyr—I can't go anywhere in the Dominion now. I'm branded for life._

_I have to get out of here._

_Cyrodiil, she realized. Yes … the answer was so easy! She could flee there. The Imperial City was vast, and surely no one would notice an Altmer child among the throngs of people that called the largest metropolis in Tamriel home. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she could continue her studies there—give herself a fresh start, an opportunity to distract her mind from this atrocity—_

_A new identity … a new beginning …_

_She tried her best to heal herself again; her leg didn't feel broken, but it was still sore enough to where she would have to constantly apply her restoration skills to ward off the pain and soreness._

_She had a long road ahead of her …_

* * *

The first sign that she knew she was—incredibly—alive was the coldness of the stone against her temple. A cold sweat—she could not tell whether it was an aftereffect of the poison, a result of the fever dream she'd seen, or if the two were possibly connected with one another—had left her drenched, and the egg-slime she had covered herself in had hardened into a bumpy, off-white resin. The smell was nauseating.

Eventually, Vinye opened her eyes, and everything crashed over her in one big wave—Septimus and the iceberg, Raldbthar, the bandits, the Falmer, all the memories of the past few hours returned to her.

It was a miracle she was still alive, Vinye thought—the Falmer could have come back for her at any time, and imprisoned her, tortured her, or worse. She didn't stop to wonder why—for now, she thanked the gods that they had been watching over her in her expedition.

But the question remained: how long had she been here? Hours? Days? Longer? Vinye was not sure. That was the trouble with Dwarven ruins—you had no idea where to find north or south, or if it was midday or midnight.

There was only way to find out, she knew, and there were two ways to go about it—the Falmer she had bypassed, and however many ruins were still left unexplored. _The danger I know … or the danger I don't_ , she thought ruefully. Either way, she knew whatever lay ahead of her was on the lookout for an intruder.

After much deliberation, she elected to push forward—if she was lucky, perhaps there were still some active Dwemer automatons in this ruin, and while they might consider her an intruder too, the case would certainly be the same for the Falmer. _That would certainly make things easier for me_.

Almost immediately, she could tell her hypothesis was correct; three Falmer lay dead in the next chamber, their black blood coating the floor with a sticky film. One had met his end by some kind of thresher trap in the ceiling (she made sure to give the pressure plate a wide berth this time), and the other two had been defeated by a set of automatons. Losses had been heavy for them as well, two spiders lay broken alongside them; only the sphere was still alive, but the heavy weapons of the Falmer had badly damaged it to the point of immobility. It tried to raise its crossbow to snipe Vinye, but the joint was broken, and the Altmer mercifully disabled it with a single lightning bolt.

Vinye continued on in relative peace and quiet; the Dwemer machinery was growing louder and louder with every step she took. It was possible she was nearing the deepest part of the ruins, which filled her with a sense of desperation. Her trek to Raldbthar wouldn't be a complete failure, thanks in part to Septimus' mystifying machine, but nonetheless, she hoped that she would have something to show Malys, Cosette, and Solyn for her efforts.

Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. A dozen spikes had risen from the floor, and they barred her from going any further. To the right, she noticed four glowing buttons, each suspended on their own pedestal. One of them must activate the gate, she guessed. The other three were just dummies—or traps.

She took a quick scan around the room. Sure enough, she could see several hollow protuberances jutting out at odd angles. Poison darts—or flame jets, she assumed. She twitched her left hand a little, preparing herself to erect a ward at a moment's notice.

Vinye grimaced inwardly—it looked like trial-and-error from here on out. She pushed the one on the far left, and jumped as she heard second set of spikes erupt from the ceiling, closing behind her and trapping her inside. After a moment of panic, she pressed it again, and the gate retreated.

 _Strike one_.

The next button she activated did nothing whatsoever—at least, she hoped that was the case. She leapt away from the third almost as soon as she'd pressed it, anticipating the worst—but her efforts paid off as the bars in front of her slid down into their grooves. She sighed in relief, and continued on.

The next chamber was even more immense—and more populated with Falmer—than the first. Clicking noises echoed throughout the chamber, though Vinye could not yet tell what was making them. They were definitely not mechanical, though, and she surmised they belonged to some kind of cave creature, perhaps captured by the Falmer.

She looked off to the right, and saw the leader of this pack though the gates: a male, covered in even thicker armor than the other chieftain, and clutching something in his clawed hand that looked vaguely familiar to her: a metal hammer shaped like a T, about as long as his forearm. Hadn't there been a similar carving featured in the Reli—

Vinye's mouth fell open as she recognized the object. _That's Sunder!_

Questions began buzzing in her mind—how was it that one of Kagrenac's Tools found its way into Skyrim? How did a Falmer manage to get his filthy claws on such a priceless artifact?

She slid open the gate as quietly as she could; the grating wasn't giving her the best look. She needed to look closer, see if the artifact was indeed genuine—

Vinye stopped in her tracks when she saw the gate opposite her—and stared in horror at the two creatures behind it.

The frostbite spiders were a feared menace throughout Skyrim, and she'd actively done her best to go out of their way, but _these_ things were on a completely different level of terrifying. The best she could describe it was a horse-sized arthropod, with two pairs of razor-sharp pincers—one on its ugly, flat head, another on its tail—that dripped with greenish-black venom and red blood from the remains of a meal that she tried not to think about.

As her initial shock and disgust gradually subsided, Vinye began to have a suspicion that these bugs hadn't been captured, but had been reared by the Falmer as livestock—domesticated to form the backbone of their culture. Their chitinous bodies instantly reminded her of the spiky armor and weapons many of them carried, and those heavy tents she'd seen earlier looked to be made out of a similar substance. She made a mental note for future reference: if she survived this ruin, she might publish a paper on this new Falmer culture one day—perhaps even shove it gloatingly under the noses of those blowhards in the Synod.

It then hit Vinye that if the Falmer were indeed raising these bugs and farming them for all they were worth, then they had to be coming from somewhere. Some kind of birthing pen, or … Then she looked behind the bugs, and sure enough, there were even more of those glowing, throbbing sacs filled with Divines only knew _how_ many eggs, and she nearly gagged as she felt a wave of nausea wash over her.

 _I covered my whole body in_ that?!

The bugs suddenly stopped their clicking and clacking. Vinye, her attention focused on the Falmer who held Sunder, didn't notice their tiny, glowing eyes were looking right at her until it was too late.

When she was fifteen feet away from the chieftain, the horrible insects suddenly emitted a piercing, chittering shriek. Instantly the Falmer snapped to attention, looking around warily as if they could actually see Vinye. The bugs shrieked again, and the high elf felt a lead weight hit her stomach when she saw the Falmer chieftain move in her direction, pulling out Sunder from his leather belt.

 _Damn it_.

Vinye began looking for possible escape routes. Going back was not an option; it would funnel the Falmer, but there was also the chance that the other camp had broken through the bar on the door, and she would be trapped between the two. There were several other corridors inside the chamber, but they had all collapsed save one: a raised bridge off to her right above a large pool of water. There was a button alongside it to lower the contraption.

Vinye knew she had no other choice.

And so she bolted.

Several things then happened in rapid succession: the Falmer snarled and lunged forward, swinging Sunder in a downward arc straight for Vinye. It missed by a long shot, Vinye saw from the corner of her eye—but then there was a flash of blue light as Sunder struck the stone floor, followed by a deafening thunderclap.

And suddenly, Vinye was lifted bodily from the floor by an immensely strong _something_ , like a dragon had just seized her in its talons. The next thing she knew, she was heading straight for the water. She bounced off the surface once—the sensation was not unlike running headlong into a brick wall—before she sank into the water.

 _Okay_ , a detached part of her mind thought through the pain. _Definitely the genuine article_.

Stars danced in front of her eyes as she tried to make sense of where she was—where was up, where was down. By the time Vinye had her bearings straight, she was running short of breath, and broke the surface with a gasp just as her vision began to blur.

She gaped at the carnage that greeted her; that one strike from Sunder had changed the layout of the entire hall. The polished stone floor had cracked like flatbread, and rocks the size of the Falmeri tents had been dislodged from the natural ceiling, crushing upwards of a dozen Falmer under their mass. The ceiling above the pool had massive cracks running through it, and Vinye hastily made her way out of the water before they had a chance to crush her as well. The two repulsive insects had been protected from the onslaught, but the gates housing them had not, and so they were free to wander the wreckage and feast on the mangled bodies of their former masters. The Falmer chieftain and a few of his subordinates had also managed to survive.

And to make matters worse, the bridge control had been dislodged, lowering the causeway of its own accord. Behind it, Vinye saw an enormous Dwemer centurion lumbering towards the remaining Falmer, steam billowing from its shoulders like a cloak. More steam hissed from its mouth, and one of the lesser Falmer screamed as the scalding vapor boiled him alive.

As Vinye watched in fascination from a safe distance, the pair of massive bugs joined the fray, their mandibles grappling at the centurion's limbs. Their strength was surprising—one of them managed to rip out the massive hammer that served as its right fist, its venom burning into the resilient golden metal. The centurion wouldn't go down easy, though; it planted one of its armored feet right on the other insect, crushing it into a purplish-black mass of sticky pulp.

The Falmer chief swung Sunder at the centurion, and Vinye braced herself for the inevitable—but the golem used its halberd arm to block his swing. The snow elf went with the movement though—perhaps more by accident than design, and struck the automaton as it wound back to make another punch. Sunder crumpled the golden golem like it was matchwood, and the centurion was blasted into a thousand pieces by whatever arcane magic the artifact had been imbued with, crumpling against the other end of the chamber and exploding into flames.

That left the chief, his subordinate, and that ugly insectoid "pet." _Three against one_ , Vinye thought. _Not good odds_.

Falinesti had offered worse.

The monsters charged—all but the chieftain, who held back with his fanged mouth curled in a sneer. Typical—letting his underlings do the dirty work, Vinye thought as she let fly with her lightning.

Both bolts hit the insect—one in its hideous mouth, the other on its underbelly—and with a final, dying shriek, it simply _exploded_ , bursting into a thick mush filled with shards of chitin and acidic venom. The other Falmer turned to look at the grisly spectacle—and Vinye promptly burned a clean hole through his hairless head.

The Falmer chieftain snarled at her as his subordinate gurgled and died, and he hefted Sunder in his hand. Vinye tapped into her innate Altmer abilities, and felt a tingling sensation as her body began to glow blue.

Then the Falmer charged, and hurled Sunder aloft, swinging it downward like a thunderbolt. Thinking quickly, Vinye pulled out the Bosmer's elven dagger; there was a gap halfway up the spine of the blade made for catching enemy weapons and parrying them. With both hands, she thrust it at Sunder—

—and the handle of the ancient hammer caught in the gap, trapping the two elves together. The Falmer shrieked as he realized his error, and tried to break free, but Vinye was holding on with all her might. She couldn't use any of her spells, else the hammer might fall—and so would she. They were well and truly deadlocked.

Or so the Falmer thought.

As her strength began to wane, and Sunder drew closer to her skull, Vinye's thoughts went to Falinesti, of that massacre she'd perpetuated—of her father, unrecognizable among all the other bodies he himself had helped to slaughter—and she felt her hackles rise as fury took hold of her once again. But this fury was more controlled; Vinye had grown since that night in Valenwood, and her talent at the arcane arts had grown as well. Instead of pushing that fury out of her, she let it spread over her body, letting all her hatred focus on the Falmer before her.

Her hair rose all over her body—her neck, her arms, her head, everywhere—and slowly but surely, she began to push back. Lightning curled over her arms, coiling around her chest, surrounding her entire body in rippling blue energy. The snow elf snarled as realization washed over him—at exactly the same time as the lightning did.

"Break _this_ ," Vinye growled, and clenched her hands as tight as she could.

If he had only let go, the Falmer would have survived for that much longer. But his simple mind was too focused on eradicating the outsider before him—and keeping his precious hammer in his claws. Doing one would have involved forgoing the other—but the Falmer had mentally regressed too far to be able to seek an alternative solution.

He died thus, screaming in agonized fury all the while as Vinye roasted him alive with her lightning. When at last he expired with a final choking gasp, he finally released Sunder from his hands, and tumbled dead in front of the Altmer, sizzling like a freshly cooked side of meat.

Victorious, Vinye wrenched the dagger from the artifact, taking extreme care not to damage either. She turned Sunder over in her hand, admiring the intricate workmanship that had gone into its construction. The crystal faces of the hammer were flawlessly formed—a single chip off the main body would have sold for far more than even the biggest, most perfect diamond in all of Tamriel. The handle was pure ebony, and the golden metal was perfectly smooth and polished in spite of its previous owner.

 _Beautiful_ , she thought.

She searched around the ruined chamber, grabbing a few strips of the cleanest linen she could find. After securely wrapping Sunder in them, Vinye reverently placed the artifact in her pack, and proceeded across the bridge. Hopefully there would be a lift on the other side—she would much prefer not to have to backtrack all the way as with Rkund.

But Raldbthar had one last surprise in store for her.

* * *

The chamber led into what Vinye assumed must have been some kind of marketplace, once her feeling of wonderment had subsided. Treasure was _everywhere_ ; ingots of gold and silver—even of ebony—and a scattering of rings, amulets, and jeweled crowns were placed on gilded shelves. Some of them glowed green and blue with various enchantments. Vinye swept them all into her pack, thinking she might study those enchantments, and perhaps even apply them to more of the jewelry.

A strange glint of color caught her eye suddenly, from a branching hallway behind and to her right. Frowning, Vinye moved down its length, approaching the pedestal at the end where the light was coming from.

It was some kind of mineral, she could see; a glimmering aquamarine color, like the Abacean off Firsthold in a summer midday. Expertly carved, too—the half-circular edge of the outside was geometrically perfect, and many of the grooves cut into the mineral were thinner than her fingernail. The craftsmanship that went toward this little thing must have been more than the merpower that created Sunder.

This bore closer research; Vinye slid this into her pack as well and turned away.

The opposite hallway contained a lift that presumably led back to the surface, but between it and Vinye was a square spiral staircase that led further down still, and Vinye decided to check that out before taking the lift.

It was only a short way down, and revealed only a small, unremarkable hallway before ending in a set of golden double doors. Vinye pushed them open.

And she _stared_.

The most immense cavern she had ever seen was spread out before her; so massive it could have swallowed an entire hold of Skyrim. So high was the ceiling that the greenish-blue clouds inside swallowed it up completely. Giant glowing mushrooms, hundreds of feet tall, dotted the cave, and tiny spores floated all around her like underground snow. The silhouettes of countless Dwemer towers completed the spectacle, surrounded by rocks that glowed eerie shades of green, purple, and blue.

_My gods …_

Vinye moved her mouth, but nothing came out. There were simply no words to describe the sheer magnificence of her eyes were seeing. Falmer, Falinesti, and Sunder were all dispelled, replaced by this awesome sight. The sights of Skyrim had been lost forever to her. She could live to be a thousand, and she doubted anything would quite eclipse the strange beauty of this place.

After what felt like hours, she tottered along the Dwemer road on numb legs, taking in the vista of the massive waterfall that it spanned. But with every sight she saw, two more seemed to take her place. She would need years, if not decades, to study this cave in its entirety.

 _When all this is done,_ she vowed, _I know where I'm going._

 _I could fill an entire library on this place. Both the Synod_ and _the College of Whispers would be_ begging _me to come back!_

Eventually, she discovered a winding column of carved rock connecting the ceiling with the cavern floor, and she could see the lever to a lift inside when she drew closer. Reluctantly, she pulled the lever, and felt the platform heave upwards with a groan.

Vinye wanted nothing more than to stay inside that cave forever, but her mind—while sorely tempted—was set nonetheless. And so it was that, when she finally emerged in the snow of Skyrim an hour later, the sun glinting off the snow and blinding her eyes after spending so long in darkness, she set back on her way to Winterhold. It was close enough, she thought, that she might have some time to drop off her things and change into some new robes before heading to Whiterun and reuniting with Malys and Cosette.

 _Those two are_ not _going to believe what I found down there …_

* * *

_WInterhold_

It was nighttime the next day when Vinye finally arrived back at the College. In that time, she had thought up what she hoped was a suitable name for her new elven dagger. Vinye had never put that much stock in naming things in her youth; sentimental value of an object had always been second to its functionality in her mind. Nevertheless, she felt confident that "Kinsbane" would be a suitable name; it had defeated one of the most powerful relics of the deep elves, along with the snow elf that had possessed it.

She strapped Kinsbane to her belt. Now that the dagger had a name, perhaps she ought to give a unique enchantment. A shock enchantment was first and foremost in her thoughts; it was straightforward, but also a little simpler than she felt it ought to be. After all, this was a very personal weapon for her, and—

"Ah! You are back so soon?"

Vinye jumped to see J'zargo coming out of the Hall of the Elements, clutching a very ancient spellbook in his paws—no doubt containing more mysteries of Aetherius just waiting to be unraveled.

"Urag has been asking for you all day," the Khajiit informed her. "He seemed very excited about something, this one thought."

Vinye's heart rose—had her research borne fruit already? "Is he still there?"

"J'zargo is not so sure he ever sleeps," he muttered. He coughed suddenly, waving his paw over his nose. "Ugh—where have you been for the past three days, Khajiit would like to know? This one stinks of the Falmer!"

Vinye cringed—she'd forgotten how sensitive Khajiit senses were. She hurriedly apologized and made her way inside before J'zargo could ask any more questions.

She entered the Arcaneum an hour later, a fresh change of robes over her shoulders and her pack freshly emptied of everything inside besides her books, Sunder, and that strange crystal.

Urag was waiting for her, scowling as always. "J'zargo told me to come see you," she informed him, keeping her voice down. Other scholars were present inside, and she was sworn to secrecy about the nature of her research.

Apparently Urag shared the same opinion; he pushed over a slip of parchment to Vinye without a word, and went back to his book with a supremely unconcerned grunt once the Altmer had taken it in her hands.

Vinye opened the letter and began to skim over its contents. The farther her eyes traveled down the page, the more pronounced her frown became. She read it again, more slowly this time.

And then she read it again.

Suddenly, she was dashing out of the Arcaneum as fast as she could go, white-faced in a mixture of confusion and horror, mind racing at top speed. Urag's shouts rang through the library, but didn't register in her ears at all.

She felt her legs carrying her out of the Hall of the Elements, and out of the College, all the way out into Winterhold, towards the carriage outside the Frozen Hearth. She leaped on board with a burst of strength that nearly sent her flying headlong into the half-terrified driver.

"Whiterun—now!" she panted, too exhausted to give him an apology. She practically threw her entire purse at him in her haste. " _Step on it!_ " she screamed.

She barely had time to grasp the handrail before the horse lurched from a standstill into a breakneck gallop, heading south for Whiterun Hold.

 _This changes everything_ , Vinye thought as she glanced once more at the letter's contents. _Auri-El, help me if I'm too late—and help Whiterun as well._

 _Because if I'm right, there might not_ be _a Whiterun for much longer …_


	9. VIII

VIII

_Eastmarch_

Malys stepped out of the ruins of Mzulft with a less-than-cheerful look on her face. She'd anticipated that there wouldn't have been much left to search for if J'zargo had been there before as he'd said, but surely he'd had to have left a few corners untouched. But even a cursory look inside the ruins had turned up nothing—even the large ferns that overgrew the carved rock walls in places seemed to have a few cuttings missing from them.

As she entered the courtyard of the ruin, shielding her face from the mid-morning sunlight, she saw another building far off to her left, independent of Mzulft proper, and decided to investigate. Perhaps J'zargo had overlooked this building on his expedition inside; even if the wily Khajiit had been here, she could not take the risk.

It turned out to be little more than a storeroom, and looked rather clean for a Dwemer ruin. But Malys' heart rose when she saw the gates behind it, and the treasures contained within. Entire ingots of the strange Dwarven metal were locked away alongside several items of jewelry and Dwarven weapons propped up on shelves. But it was the object behind the gate in front of her that had captivated her.

The bars of the gate didn't afford much of a view, but from what the Dunmer could see, it was flat and shiny, and glowed an eerie blue. She peered down at the lock, and frowned; it too was glowing slightly, which was strange for a lock. Was it trapped? Enchanted? She caressed it with a single finger, directing a small amount of her frost magic into the keyhole.

The effect was immediate; whatever enchantment around the lock deflected the cold air completely—apparently it had been enchanted to where it could only be opened by physical means—most likely by a particular key, and Malys couldn't be bothered with finding that. She huffed under her breath in frustration, and then again when she realized she'd forgotten to bring lockpicks.

But all was not lost; there appeared to be another way inside, and through the adjacent gate no less. Moreover, closer inspection revealed that _this_ lock was unshielded against Malys' frost magic, and she forced her way through after only a minute of rusting the mechanism. The second door in her way was more or less the same, and took even less time to corrode.

Heart rushing in enthusiasm, Malys ran toward the pedestal where she'd seen the glowing blue object. Now that she was much closer to it, she could make out a sort of half-moon shape, with a strangely carved shape jutting from the middle. It was intricately detailed, and Malys instinctively knew that only the dwarves could have produced something like this.

She pocketed it without a second thought, along with all the other trinkets she'd passed. Most of them she could sell; Malys was sure there was a blacksmith in Shor's Stone that would take the bulk of her haul. Perhaps if she were lucky, she'd find some more ruins along her journey southward—and who knew what lay within those?

Malys grinned as she left the now-empty storeroom, and a faraway part of her brain pondered if this was how J'zargo felt every time he entered a ruin or a dungeon.

 _This must be my lucky day_ , she thought.

* * *

"This is _not_ my lucky day," Malys grumbled four hours later.

She'd scoured almost all the Velothi Mountains that bordered Eastmarch, and not one of them contained a single cave or clue that the Dwemer had ever carved a single stone there. Perhaps those ruins were all on the other side of the range, she thought. She hoped that wasn't the case—there were very few passes from Skyrim to Morrowind—and surely none of them would have been routed through these infernal mountains.

She came upon a bend in the road at length—the same one where she had encountered the bandit called Gjavar, she realized—and she shuddered at the memory, though she could not tell whether it was out of fear or … _No_ , she thought hurriedly, shaking her head. _Get out of there_.

Mercifully, a figure came up from behind her, distracting Malys from her thoughts. Small and nimble—a Bosmer, she saw, judging from his brown pointed ears. She was taken aback at his primitive armor; it reminded her of the chitinous armor that was sometimes worn in Morrowind, and looked like it had cut from the hide of some huge, spiky, purplish-blue insect.

Now that she saw him closer up, she decided the wood elf looked rather imposing despite his size—even with the armor, he was still several inches shorter than Malys. A nasty-looking gash ran across his face, and his scarred muscular arms had seen more action than even her suit of elven armor.

"What are you looking at?" he said irritably.

Malys fumbled over her tongue—she was still too busy taking the sight of this Bosmer in. "What kind of armor is _that_ supposed to be?"

"Chaurus chitin," the Bosmer said smugly. "All my weapons are made from Chaurus chitin, too." Malys noticed the spiky twin swords hanging either side of his waist—somehow they looked even heavier and even more brutal than Cosette's Forsworn blade. An equally nasty-looking bow and quiver of arrows hung over his back as well.

"Name's Gadriath," continued the wood elf as he introduced himself. "Mercenary and exterminator for hire for nigh on ten years, and I've earned my keep across half of Tamriel."

 _Mercenary?_ Suddenly Malys felt her good luck returning. Her frost magic wouldn't do any good against those damned Dwemer golems; if she was going to encounter any of them, she would definitely need some help. "Are you offering your services to me?" she asked, concealing a smile at her own double-entendre.

"There was word of some trouble around here," Gadriath said stiffly. "I was on my way to take a look. If you want more than that, it's going to cost you."

Malys raised an eyebrow. _So that's how it is_. She opened her pack, and extracted some of the heaviest trinkets she'd purloined from that storeroom near Mzulft. "I have"—she made a quick count—"ten ingots of Dwemer metal, and a dwarven sword." She inspected the blade. "Barely used, looks like a … magicka-draining enchantment."

Gadriath considered this. "Not a bad haul for a greenhorn," he said. "Dwarven treasure's a big commodity in some circles." He suddenly crossed his arms. "I am _not_ a part of those circles. You want in, you pay me in gold."

Malys resisted the urge to roll her eyes—she had figured he would say that. "There's a blacksmith at Shor's Stone," she said. "Whatever he gives me for all this is yours."

Gadraith mulled this over in his head for the longest few seconds of Malys' life. Finally, he nodded. "Deal."

* * *

_Outside Shor's Stone_

All told, Malys' dwarven haul netted the Bosmer close to four hundred septims. Even better, their destination—something the local population called Tolvald's Cave, according to Gadriath—was located only a short distance eastward of Shor's Stone.

The inside of the cave looked rather unassuming, although there were remnants of a campfire were strewn about the ground, and the freshly dead body of a hunter. His effects were littered among the embers of the fire; Malys could see a journal and a set of lockpicks among the trash. She picked them up, brushing the ashes off them.

"So what was this 'trouble' you were called in about, Gadriath?" she asked, inspecting the contents of the book.

The wood elf didn't answer, and there was only a faint chewing noise. Worried, Malys turned to look back. "Gadri— _augh!"_

She recoiled at the sight of Gadriath sinking his sharpened teeth into the dead hunter's neck. There were already a few suspicious-looking bites in various places on the body. " _What are you doing?!_ " she whispered, too surprised and disgusted to raise her voice any higher.

Gadriath looked at her in surprise. "I'm from Valenwood—it's my religion," he said simply, spitting out something hard and unmentionable. "I follow the Green Pact; I don't eat fruit or vegetables—only meat. Cannibalism is fair game—just like every other animal." He swallowed whatever was left in his mouth, and Malys had no idea how she wasn't sick all over the cave right then and there.

Her expression must have irked Gadriath in some way. "I figured you knew," he said defensively. "Most of my clients come to me for help because they already know I follow the Green P— _watch it!_ "

Before Malys could say anything, Gadriath had notched an arrow, drawn his bow, and fired directly at her. The arrow sailed mere inches past the surprised elf's ear, and she heard a strangled yowl from directly behind her. Malys turned around, and immediately felt her anger and disgust drain from her mind at the giant sabre cat that had been preparing to pounce on her—and would have torn her apart if not for the arrow in its skull.

Gadriath effortlessly plucked the arrow from the feline's carcass, and lazily flicked the remains of the eye he'd shot from the missile. "You're welcome," he said to Malys, a faint smirk upon his face.

Malys tried to say something, but no words came out, and she found herself opening and closing her jaw repetitively like a fish. " … Okay, you win," she groaned, kicking the slain sabre cat disdainfully. "But the next time you're feeling hungry, let me know so I don't have to watch, all right? And try to keep it quiet," she added.

She peered behind a natural column of the cave, and something familiar caught her eye. "Gadriath, look at this," she said, motioning him over. "There's ruins in this cave—Dwarven ruins; I recognize the stonework on this archway. Maybe we should take a closer look."

The Bosmer straightened. He didn't look happy to hear that news. "I hate Dwarven ruins," he grumbled.

"Why?" Malys asked. "Those machines of theirs can't be that bad, can they?"

"It's not the machines I'm worried about," Gadriath said ominously, but he did not elaborate.

Eventually, he shrugged. "All right," he said heavily. "I'll go with you; I have a hard time repairing this armor as it is—but this is going to cost you a lot extra."

"Take what you want as we go," Malys said. "I'm only looking for some particular Dwarven artifacts, and I'm not entirely sure I'm going to find anything like that in a cave like this. So unless I say otherwise, you can take everything that isn't tied down for all I care."

Gadriath grunted skeptically, but eventually nodded his head. "Fair enough," he said, as they crossed under the archway into Tolvald's Cave. They encountered several more sabre cats along their way, as well as more bodies of ill-fated hunters, and Malys made sure to cover her eyes and ears while Gadriath sated his strange appetite.

Eventually, they reached a low-hanging cave that forced Malys to bend nearly double to cross it. More of the glowing mushrooms she'd seen in Rkund festooned the cave walls, and surrounded a small dwarven door. Behind that, a large semicircular chest rested on a table. Shadows thrown from the gas-powered lamp above it dominated the cave walls like some gigantic black spider.

"Wait," Gadriath said as Malys approached the chest. "It's too easy a target—that chest has to be trapped somehow. Let me take a look at it."

He drew out a lockpick from a pouch near his sword, and inspected the chest at length. "Ah-ha," he said triumphantly. He fiddled with something Malys couldn't see for a few seconds, and then there was a twanging noise. "There—that should have disabled the trap," a satisfied Gadriath said as he pried open the lid of the chest. "Now to—"

_twang_

Gadriath leapt back suddenly as the chest—which they both belatedly realized had been double-trapped—was suddenly pelted with tiny darts. A number of them hit his armor, and a few more dug into his flesh. A few of them ricocheted and hit Malys as well, ripping through her robes, and she hissed through her teeth in pain.

And then, as if that wasn't enough, several perfectly camouflaged sections of the cave—one either side of the duo—heaved upwards. Three shadowy figures emerged from the secret alcoves, blocking all possible ways out.

Malys had no idea what these … _things_ were. They walked like men bent double, looked vaguely like elves from what little she could tell by their silhouetted forms—but they didn't sound like either; the only noise they made was a wet, labored breathing. The only other thing she knew about them was that they would definitely be hostile.

But before Malys could think to attack them, Gadriath clapped a hand over her wrist. He shook his head imperceptibly at the Dunmer, then motioned to the figures, and finally drew a finger across his neck.

He skulked away from Malys then, weaving his way behind the figures and leaving the Dunmer to wonder what was stranger: that his heavy-looking armor didn't make any noise, or that the figures didn't seem to notice he was sneaking behind them—until it was too late.

The Bosmer drew his sword, and—once, twice, thrice—slit their throats in rapid succession. The man-things fell one by one, and Gadriath laid them silently to the ground in calm, practiced movements.

Malys let out a breath in relief as the Bosmer strode to her, wiping off his brutal-looking blade on the cave floor and looking rather annoyed. "Who were they?" she asked.

"The last remnants of the snow elves—the Falmer," Gadriath answered, picking darts out of his body. "Have a look for yourself."

Malys cast a candlelight spell, and promptly gasped in horror as she saw the Falmer clearly for the first time. It was like she'd flipped over a rock and seen something disgusting wriggling underneath, only a hundred times bigger.

"Mm-hmm," agreed Gadriath wearily. "After the ancient Nords drove them underground, the Falmer came to the dwarves for help. But the Dwemer tricked them—blinded them first, then turned them into nothing more than feral savages. Slaves. After the dwarves disappeared, they left the Falmer behind to breed like skeevers in their wake."

Malys felt her dislike of the Nords and the dwarves deepen even further. _To condemn an entire species like that …_

"Since the Falmer can't see, they hunt by sound and smell instead," Gadriath continued. "That's why they didn't notice me sneak up to them—I had my greaves doubly enchanted by a Telvanni wizard after I cleared a nest of scribs from his tower. Helps my stealth and muffles my footsteps, too. Saved my life more times than I can count."

Malys was too busy staring wild-eyed at the Falmer and their primitive armor and weapons—which she noted looked suspiciously like the effects Gadriath was carrying. "Where exactly did you get your armor?" she asked.

"Some Dwarven ruin in the Pale—I forget the name—and guess what it was filled to the rafters with," the Bosmer said dismissively. "But I'd like to know how they didn't detect _you_. A novice of Winterhold doesn't know enough magic to escape detection by a whole nest of Falmer."

Malys shrugged. "I … guess I just stayed really quiet," she said lamely.

Gadriath didn't look too convinced. "Well, at any rate, I'll definitely be earning my keep in here," he said, drawing out his bow. "One thing I've learned in my time about the Falmer and the Dwemer—the bigger the mountain, the bigger the ruin … and the bigger the hive. And we're right under one of the biggest mountain ranges in Tamriel."

Malys felt a sudden fear rising up in her insides.

Gadriath tested the string on his bow, and adjusted his quiver. "So I really hope they taught you well up at that College," he said. "Dead men tell no tales, after all—and they don't pay any dues, either."

And with that, the mercenary crept into one of the passages revealed by the fake walls, Malys following behind him.

There were indeed more Falmer in the next few chambers; two of them were crouched over the mangled bodies of a hunting party. Gadriath felled them with one arrow each—one to the head, another to the heart—with the practiced arm of a Bosmer who'd clearly spent most of his life holding a bow; he wielded it like an extension of his own body.

Three more Falmer came to investigate the commotion, squeezing out of cracks and holes in the cave that would have crushed any other man or mer, and Malys killed them with a quick volley of ice spikes. One of them got so close to the Dunmer that she applied a little too much magic out of panic, and her attack went straight through the Falmer's heart and into the chest of the companion behind him, earning an appreciative nod from the wood elf.

They took several moments to catch their breath, and inspected the Falmer camp they'd just cleared out. The remains of several ill-fated adventurers lay inside a tent; one of them was clutching a spellbook, judging by its cover ( _Flesh, Bone, and Metal: An Apprentice's Guide to Defensive Magic_ ). Malys pried it from the man's dead fingers, and leafed through the smudged pages.

"Flesh spells," she murmured—a colloquial term for layering the body with a dense, armor-like shell of magic. "Could be useful against these Falmer."

Gadriath made a noise of disapproval as Malys leafed through the tome. "You need more than magic to clear out a Falmer hive," he said. "They live and breathe poison, you know; they soak their weapons in whole vats of the stuff. One scratch is all it takes—even wards and 'flesh spells' won't do you any good."

 _Wonderful_ , Malys thought dryly, pocketing the spellbook for later as they squeezed through a crevice filled with moss that glowed as bright as day. "And I suppose you know how to fight them?" she asked with a wry smile.

"Hit them," said Gadriath, "before they get close enough to hit you. If you want to beat an enemy, you have to think like him first. Study him, both up close and far away. I've spent half my career building up a resistance to that poison of theirs, and I've learned to watch for even the tiniest hole where one might be able to fit. There is no one in Skyrim better equipped than me against the Falmer," he finished, crossing his arms boastfully.

Malys, meanwhile, had to wonder how much of his talk was just that.

* * *

After groping around in the pitch-black darkness for a long while, the two elves eventually encountered an underground river. There were crevices in every direction, and Malys could see some tents on the opposite ledge, illuminated by glowing fungi of every shape and size.

"I don't like this," she said, after scanning the entire chamber and noticing a distinct lack of Falmer. It reminded her too much of that double-trapped door in Rkund—an ambush waiting to happen.

Gadriath had already nocked an arrow. "Agreed," he said. "I'll draw them out—see what we're dealing with."

He fired the arrow, which clattered off one of the far-off tents. Instantly, the scene exploded into activity; dozens of Falmer emerged from their hiding places all around the cave. Most were a fair distance away, and were separated by a drop of ten, maybe fifteen feet. Others, however, were far closer—close enough to have detected the sound of Gadriath firing his bow, and close enough to engage.

Malys saw a half-dozen Falmer making their way up the ledge towards them. She quickly charged more ice magic, and impaled one of the cave-elves through his neck, sending him tumbling down into the river below, where he was promptly swept away by the current. Gadriath shot a second Falmer between his shoulder blades before unsheathing his twin swords. Malys readied some healing magic in her other hand; Gadriath was the only chance she had against those dwarven automatons, and if those Falmer got close enough to rush him en masse—

_Rip them apart._

Malys stumbled—her stomach had seized up without warning, as though she'd suddenly become very hungry, and several things happened at once. Her fists clenched of their own volition, and she felt her nails digging into her palms. They became very cold, like she'd plunged them into the Sea of Ghosts; she did a double take when she saw the jagged, lethal shards that had formed over her hands.

_How did I—?!_

And then she felt her body twisting, contorting like an acrobat into the midst of the Falmer—her icy hands-turned-blades scything among them, tearing into their wasted flesh—

_—the nord lay beneath Her on the bed, naked but for his loincloth; Her hands—frozen into jagged claws—caressed him, slapped and jabbed at him, bringing him both pleasure and pain as the blood trickled from his wounds—_

Malys' stomach convulsed again, and the image was gone; she dropped to her knees and gasped for breath, not even noticing Gadriath's expression, or the dead Falmer around her. She could not quite believe what had just happened.

 _Who was that?_ Her thoughts ran wild as she desperately searched for an answer. What _was that? I've never … I …_

_I don't remember …_

Malys jumped when she felt the wood elf put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm fine," she said hurriedly, before he opened his mouth. "I just—I had some stomach cramps, that's all."

"For good reason," Gadriath said. He was pointing at Malys' forearm, and looked shaky. Malys followed his finger, and blanched when she saw the sizable gash that had been opened up in her arm. The wound ran from wrist to elbow-going clear to the bone at its deepest—and was covered in reddish-black splashes.

Her blood, she realized—and Falmer blood.

Quickly as she could, Malys pulled out a restorative potion from her bag, drank it, and used her magic to finish the job. But Gadriath still looked very uneasy.

"That blade was poisoned," he said, when Malys asked him why. "Remember when I said one scratch was enough? Well, you had a lot more than a scratch, and you don't look like you've been affected at all."

"Maybe the poison was old," Malys shrugged—but even she wasn't convinced. Whatever she had seen in her head couldn't have been some bolt-from-the-blue recollection. Was it some kind of hallucinogen? It was possible that the Falmer could have used some sort of fear toxin—though she had to admit, they were terrifying enough as it was.

"All the same, we can't just rush in like that," Gadriath said. "We got lucky last time; do that again, one of us is going to die." He looked pointedly at Malys. "Best way to approach this is to take them out one at a time. Slow, but steady. We'll attack, hang back for a while until they decide we've gone, and repeat until they're dead. Falmer aren't the smartest creatures in this cave—but they're close up there, so we need to be very, very careful."

Malys swallowed. "I'm right behind you, then," she said. _Keep this elf alive_ , she thought, instinctively preparing more healing magic.

The Bosmer didn't seem to really need her help, though. As they continued going further and further into the labyrinthine network, Malys began to notice more and more just how adept Gadriath was at dealing with the Falmer. The musty smell of the cave was stronger in some places than others, and the wood elf used them to his advantage: he would maneuver himself so that a freshly rotting carcass of an animal—or a dead Falmer—sat between himself and his target so as to conceal his own scent. Malys also suspected that the elf's weapons and armor, being of Falmer origin, had the same pungent smell that pervaded this cave, and therefore masked his scent further still.

Sometimes Gadriath would also fire more arrows at no particular place for any particular reason. But Malys soon came to learn that this was useful for distracting the cave-elves into locating the sudden disturbance—at which point he would down them all with such ease that it might as well have been target practice for an archer of his caliber.

After many hours' worth of these guerrilla tactics, Malys and Gadriath came upon another large cave, where several more Falmer were stationed. Strange chitters and clicks echoed off the rock walls, and Malys heard a sharp intake of breath from the Bosmer.

"Chaurus," he whispered. "Big damn bugs. The Falmer breed them for just about everything. Weapons, armor, all their poisons, all their homes—even their _waste disposal_."

Malys thought of the remains of that hunting party she'd seen earlier in the cave, and felt a wave of nausea pass over her as the implications sank in.

"I once cleared out a hive where their chief actually used a chaurus as a steed," Gadriath went on. "Toughest job I ever had to do."

Malys looked for any telltale cracks or holes in the wall, but found none. The cave was larger than any they'd been in thus far, however, and she could not see the space in its entirety. _Unless_ —

"I want to take a closer look, maybe try to draw them towards us," she said under her breath, charging more ice in her hands. "Think you can cover me, Gadriath?"

Silence.

" … Gadriath?"

Again there was no reply. She turned around, and her heart sank into Oblivion: the Bosmer was nowhere to be seen.

 _He left me here!_ Malys thought, fear and anger clutching her lungs like twin vices. _That little n'wah_ abandoned _me!_

She turned back the way she came, thinking she could catch up with him and give him a piece of her mind. But immediately the more rational part of her mind began to wonder why Gadriath would do something like this. He'd been promised a _very_ fetching reward, and he'd not offered any sort of alibi for running off on Malys like this. Resignation and reluctance, maybe—but not outright rebellion!

Malys trudged back into the cave with the chaurus, but tripped over a loose rock—a rock that hadn't been there before, she thought. She looked at her feet, reaching blindly towards the object—and that feeling of fear tightened its hold on her yet again when she saw its familiar insectoid shape, small enough to fit snugly over one's head.

 _Gadriath's helmet_.

Malys craned her neck upward, her spine digging against the collar of her elven armor, and noticed a fairly wide fissure under where the two elves had been standing not a minute ago. Three feet long, maybe one wide, she surmised, large enough for a man to fit inside, if he was willing—or _un_ willing.

The clicking noises were growing louder.

Malys felt her feet rooted to the ground in terror. It was looking less and less likely that Gadriath had left under his own power. She felt a cool, pungent wind rush over her face—and she smelled the telltale metallic odor of blood.

It was coming from the fissure.

Malys knew she was dead if she stayed where she was. If she retreated, she was _almost_ certainly dead. And if she pressed on … The Dunmer gulped. There was only one solution she could see—and she wasn't too happy about it.

And so, throwing all sense of stealth and caution to the winds, she charged forward.

Not a moment too soon, either: as she sprinted into the cave, firing ice spikes wherever she saw movement, she heard something large and heavy impact the ground behind her. She did not check to see if it had followed her, and frankly, she did not care—she was too focused on killing everything inside this musty, Daedra-forsaken cave.

The Falmer were first to go—Malys wasted no time in turning them into giant pincushions with her ice magic. She cast them from her fingers this time; the shards were smaller, but thinner and faster, and more spread out as well. She didn't know why the idea had occurred to her, but Malys wasn't about to take any chances with—

_—she was naked, spread-eagled against the wall, and struggled against her bonds in pretend terror while needles of ice caressed her, guided by Her expert hands; the redguard moaned as She marked the taut flesh with Her magic—_

_They are beneath you—_ all _of them._

Before Malys could process this, her stomach gave another searing twitch; more violent this time, like a red-hot knife had sliced through her chest, and she screamed in pain. That drew the attention of the chaurus within the cave; they were enclosed in some kind of pen, but without any Falmer to keep it shut, the chaurus were free to roam where they wished now—and they wished to feed on this new, unwelcome arrival.

Out of the pen they crawled; three of them, each as big as a dog, and spitting gobs of black slime at Malys from their hideous jaws. The Dunmer threw up a ward too late, and the goo spattered against her clothes, burning through her robes and corroding her elven armor even further. Some of it landed on exposed flesh, and Malys felt a stinging sensation as the venom bubbled against her gray skin.

_Damn!_

But somehow, the venom wasn't doing what it was supposed to, which struck the Dunmer as odd. Perhaps they were domesticated, these chaurus; was it possible that the Falmer had removed the poisonous parts of their body to prevent any danger being done to them—?

The lead chaurus suddenly lunged at her, jaws wide open, and Malys thrust both hands at the monster and fired one giant ice spike into its maw. The insect was propelled away from her, and thrashed in its death throes; the two remaining chaurus retreated to a safe distance, and snapped their jaws threateningly at her.

Malys knew using her regular ice magic was suicide. She needed something more potent than that—a single attack, but one that could hit multiple targets, like what Vinye could do with her lightning.

She thought of the desolation of Molag Amur, and the churning ash storms that had ravaged the region. Malys willed the icy magic in her hand to swirl like those storms, concentrating it into a single point, and then molding that point, rotating it through force of will until it felt like she was holding a tiny tornado in her palm.

She released that tornado at the exact moment the chaurus charged again. The swirling white clouds of the ice storm grew and grew as they traveled outward to meet the insects, until it had enveloped them both. Their chitinous bodies froze solid in the extreme cold Malys had generated, and shattered into thousands of pieces under the combined weight of their bulk and the ice that coated them.

Malys let out a single breath in relief, but she knew that she had nothing to be relieved about at all.

Her guide had disappeared without a trace.

Her only defense against the Dwemer was gone.

She had absolutely no idea where in Skyrim she was.

And yet, against her will and all better judgment, Malys felt her legs carrying her forward once again, towards a goal that she wasn't even sure had existed in the first place. She swallowed; whatever lay ahead of her—Dwemer, Falmer, or worse—then she had no other choice but to face it head-on.

Alone.

* * *

The path took her alongside the same river as before, and led up a steep incline. At its crest was a single bridge of grated metal, which Malys took as a sign of good luck; the Dwemer had been here, and the thought of them laying a bridge here of all places suggested that there might be a sizable ruin nearby.

A single armored Falmer patrolled the bridge, masked by the glowing mist of an underground waterfall. Malys dispatched him with another overcharged ice spike, sending him plunging into the bottomless depths below.

Her spirits rose further when she saw the paved footpath beyond the bridge—the dwarves had actually taken the time and resources to make an underground road! Whatever this road led to, Malys knew it was something big—and that it was most likely heavily guarded.

Suddenly, Malys' boots brushed against a loose part of the road, and she looked downward. It was a journal, so faded it was almost unreadable. She could only make out snippets of writing amongst all the torn pages:

 

> _—another dream of Red Mountain erupting. People running as flaming rocks the size of cantons fell from the sky—_
> 
> _—can still see my brother's outstretched arm, as he tried to reach the silt strider and walked right out into the boiling waters—_
> 
> _—not just Vvardenfell, all of Morrowind was hit by the rocks. There's no work and no food will grow under the ashes. We are going to try for Skyrim—_

Malys bowed her head as she closed the faded diary. The hell that had been the Red Year was one of the few memories still fresh in her mind. Vvardenfell had been completely destroyed in the cataclysm, and her homeland was nothing but a wasteland now.

_—the sky was thick with ash, and She held a cloth over her mouth to protect Herself from suffocating—_

It had been the only time in her life where she could remember being so helpless, her senses being overloaded by light and sound and the stench of decay.

_—She ran for the city gates, and heard men, elves and beastfolk alike wailing in Suran's streets as their parents, their children, husbands, and wives, and all their loved ones choked to death in front of them, and Her heart ached as the crowds' own cries were suddenly silenced without warning by the lethal clouds and burning rocks—_

This journal must have been written by one of the survivors, she thought. He'd joined up with a caravan of some sort, where there was food and water to be found, and companionship as well—perhaps even love.

_—the wind whipped at Her face as the boat sailed from Balmora, towards a future She knew not where—_

And Malys had survived it, too. But her memory was incomplete; how she had ended up going from Suran to Windhelm was a mystery she had never been fully able to solve—

Malys felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck suddenly, and her body tensed. She sniffed the air cautiously; as if she could detect a smell she could not quite place. But the smell wasn't so much physical as it was mental—her mind was buzzing in alarm.

She was not alone.

She quickened her pace along the winding Dwemer road, checking over her shoulder periodically to make sure she wasn't being followed, but always finding nothing.

The remnants of a smashed carriage lay before her, its previous occupants now nothing more than skeletons. One of them clutched an old staff, carved in the likeness of a dragon. Malys sensed its power as soon as she touched it, and she slung it over her shoulder; this staff might come in useful. Another skeletal hand clutched a journal more tattered than the one she found earlier, and almost as illegible:

 

> _—hearing things in the darkness, every sound seems amplified and it is hard to sleep over the sobbing—_
> 
> _—Madras has started hallucinating from hunger. Says she saw a white elf peering out at us from the dark corners of the tunnel—_
> 
> _—used to be a battlemage and tried to hold them off—_
> 
> _—caused a cave-in … some of them escaped, but we were trapped with these things—_
> 
> _—now hold us prisoner—_
> 
> _—given up hope of escape—_

Malys frowned as she read the faded words. Somehow the caravan had managed to find their way inside this cave, and they had run astray of the Falmer inside. How, though? Had there been a way under the mountains at that time?

And that name … Madras … it sounded familiar to her for some reason—

_—the caravan slowed to a halt as She cried out to the figures on board, and Her spirits rose; they had heard her voice. She was safe …_

_"Where are You headed?"_

_"Windhelm," She replied._

_"Well, myself and the rest of us are heading the complete other way for Riften, but you're welcome to take what you need to get there—within reason, of course," said one of the elves, a female—and expecting, judging by her swollen belly. "I'm madras."_

_"Malys Aryon, House Hlaalu." The two women shook hands—_

She stiffened again. Whatever she had sensed earlier had returned; she could feel that malevolent presence close by—a cold, savage _evil_.

And it was getting closer.

She stopped only to empty the chest the carriage had been transporting among its long-spoiled food and worn clothes; a sizable purse of gold and some lockpicks were all that could be salvaged. Then she continued on, her pace faster than before; she almost sprinted to the next cavern in her efforts to escape whatever was behind her.

The entrance to a Dwemer ruin lay at the end of this cave, flanked by collapsed passages and more ruined wagons. Dozens of decomposing corpses of both Falmer and chaurus littered the area, along with more skeletons of unfortunate dark elves. The nearest to the door of the ruin held yet another ruined trailbook, and Malys frantically leafed through the ripped pages:

 

> _—map we traded a glass dagger to get is a fake. We can't find the pass marked over the mountains—_
> 
> _—should have tried for The Rift—_
> 
> _—took shelter from the storm in the ruins … stepped on a pressure plate and trapped us inside—_
> 
> _—Gildryn said there's dwarven roads that lead under the mountains … have to try—_

Malys stopped dead in her tracks as the words sank in. The map had been forged, or perhaps incorrectly read, and the poor elves had found themselves hopelessly lost. In an act of desperation, they had fled into a dwarven ruin to seek shelter from a storm, and tried their chances at breaking through to Skyrim under the mountains instead …

But what had grabbed her attention was the name in the journal. Gildryn.

_Gildryn … that name sounds familiar, too …_

_"—this is all we can give you," said the dunmer, clutching the precious knife carved from gleaming malachite in his hand, as though he couldn't bear parting ways with it …_

_"gildryn," said his companion, "we can't afford to be sentimental right now—that map is our only hope of finding our way to Skyrim. i know that dagger belonged to your da, but your da's dead now. our families are all gone … all dead … "_

_"not yet," said madras, stroking her bulging chest lovingly. "not yet … "_

_gildryn finally relented, and as She gave him a crudely sketched map of the Velothi range, he pressed the handle of the knife into Her hand, stifling a sob as he surrendered his most valuable treasure—_

Malys felt a terrible chill descending down her spine as the memory emerged from the depths, like some long-forgotten sea monster. Gildryn had traded her a glass dagger for a simple map that turned out to be worthless, and she had given him that map.

 _She_ was the reason they were here, the reason they had died for nothing.

 _She had doomed them all_.

Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "Oh, Azura help me."

… But where had she found the map? Malys thought amongst her pangs of regret, trying to think of a rational reason to do something so inexplicable. Had she drawn it herself? No—no, surely she couldn't be that callous, to knowingly lead them to their deaths—

_"—Here." She handed the furled piece of parchment to the pregnant elf. "It's an older route, so I'm told, but it should still be there. Most will try for the Rift, or the path west of Blacklight—that's where I'm going … "_

_"Azura smile on you, friend." madras kissed Her on the cheek, and turned to her companion to discuss payment—_

_So close …_

Malys whirled around at the sound—had she been hearing things? It was only a whisper—an echo—but it was _right there_ , like it had whispered into her ear. She felt the air freezing inside her lungs, robbing her of breath.

She had to get out of here.

_I'm coming …_

Without any second thoughts, a terrified Malys ran for the ruin, sprinting as fast and for as long as her body was able. She threw aside the golden doors frantically, nearly tripping over her own armored boots as she desperately tried to outrun whatever was coming after her—

 _—Her body shook with pleasure as the ashlander shifted his position behind Her, continuing to thrust inside Her without missing a beat while She writhed and moaned; She wished desperately She could repay him in kind, and show him something different, a_ better _kind of pleasure, but an even greater desperation had led Her here—_

The hall opened up into a large atrium, and split off into a number of smaller hallways up ahead. But Malys did not care about them—she had just noticed the objects in the center of the chamber: a pair of armored, golden hands resting on a plinth, reaching skyward as if in prayer to some forgotten god. She gasped in recognition as an image of a carved podium in the Reliquary of Rkund swam into her vision—

_—the ashlander added some finishing touches to the map, and laid it into Her hand as She stripped off her clothing inside the lean-to, giving him a perfect view of Her lithe, supple body; She placed it inside Her pack before the ashlander forced Her on all fours, removing his chitin armor as he did so—_

Suddenly the Dwemer ruin, and the podium in front of her, disappeared from her sight, and an unending deluge of images washed over Malys' mind. Memories long since forgotten appeared in her mind's eye for only the faintest moment of time, only to be replaced by another, equally transitory mental picture.

_What's happening to me?!_

_—She was screaming at the ashlander to ravish her faster … She was almost over the edge, almost ready to come … and then Her neck flared with pain as he bent over and bit Her; it was surprisingly painful for something so brief—_

And then, without warning, Malys felt her face burst open in agony. The pain was intolerable, choking; she could not even scream—and even if she had the option, she never had the time. Her eyes rolled into the back of her skull, her body became limp, and she tumbled to the stone floor at the foot of the pedestal, and her face continued to blaze in torment as darkness clouded her vision, and she knew nothing more …

* * *

she awoke with searing pain in her neck. her body was immobile—she could not even move a finger; she stood spread-eagled in the center of the chamber, arms raised high, eyes front, her paralyzed body forming a large X.

 _I_ told you _I remembered_.

malys felt her terror augment another notch. It was _her_. The same voice she had heard outside Rkund … the same Malys that had tortured the bandit called Gjavar.

"What do You want?" she called out. her voice echoed off the walls of the chamber.

 _I want_ you _. I want you … to remember—remember everything I do._

"Why?" malys shouted. "You and i are not the same. Haven't i told you already? You. Are. Not. me!"

The chamber echoed with an evil laugh. _Oh, but I_ am _you. I've_ been _part of you for two hundred years!_

malys' breath caught in her throat. Two _hundred_ years? But … that meant …

 _Yes_. That evil laugh echoed in her ears again, and she felt a brief gust of wind brush her face. _That ashlander was where everything started—and he was only the beginning._

 _you were so_ desperate _to find a way out of the hell that Morrowind had become_ , not-Malys whispered in a sneer. _So you offered yourself to him … you filthy little_ slut.

malys felt her head twist violently against her will. A stinging pain flared up on her cheek, like a giant palm had just slapped her very hard.

"i am _not_ a slut!" she screamed at not-Malys.

 _Tell that to Helviane Desele, you lying_ bitch. her other cheek split apart in agonizing pain once more; that palm had struck her again, and her eyes were burning with tears. _Tell that to all the business you brought to her doorstep. All those happy little people … and it was all thanks to you,_ slut _._

_—the dunmer howled as Her horsewhip lashed his naked backside over and over again, and She paused for only a moment to hear his sobbing, his gratitude to Mistress as the bruises blossomed on his body—_

_All those unhappy men you pleased … and even …_

_—the wood elf lay face down on the bed, bound by silken ropes while She planted a knee on her back, thrusting Her fingers inside her most sacred place; another hand kept the bosmer maiden's head against the pillows as she screamed for Mistress to give her more—_

"Stop … "

_they gave themselves to you … and after you were finished with them, their own fingers, their hands … even the real thing just wasn't enough for them anymore …_

"Please stop … "

_—She allowed the argonian to bite her lovingly, gasping at the tiny twinge of pain as his fangs made contact with the nape of Her neck; and then it was his turn to feel the pleasure that came with impending pain, as She pulled out a sharpened dagger and ran the very tip from his groin to his scaly neck, poking just a tiny bit to make him squirm—_

" _Stop it!_ "

Not-Malys slapped her again, that invisible palm striking malys hard enough to make stars dance in her eyes.

 _Oh, I don't think I will, slut_ , the evil voice snarled in her ear. _We're not in your little playground anymore. I'm not going to stop—not_ now _, not_ ever _. Not until you remember what I do—not until you tell me_ what you are!

her tears splattered on the stone, and the sound of her sobbing echoed throughout the dwarven halls as the pain finally subsided. If that was all it took, then there was only one thing she could do.

" … i'm a whore … " she squeaked through the tears, somehow feeling even smaller inside the Dwemer chamber than before.

 _What was that?_ Not-Malys' voice was a sibilant hiss.

"i'm a whore."

 _Again_ , Not-Malys purred.

"i'm a whore!" malys burst out, directing her fury at the malevolence that was and wasn't there. "i'm a slut—a filthy little _slut!_ Is that enough for You?!"

Not-Malys laughed in satisfaction. _I'm glad you're so honest with Me_ , she cooed. malys felt the invisible hand stroking her hair. _Such a good little girl_ …

And then it struck her on the base of her skull, harder than ever, and malys closed her eyes instinctively to ward off the pain. She felt her head being pressed downward, forcing her to bend over. _But that's not what I wanted to hear._

malys felt her eyes fluttering open, independent of her will. _I want you to take a look at yourself, slut_ , Not-Malys hissed. _I want you to tell me what you see_.

The dunmer had no choice but to obey, and so she focused her vision between her feet.

The podium behind her was surrounded by a circular sheet of golden metal, smooth and cut with geometric, curving patterns. Four thousand years of solitude had not tarnished it in any way; it was a gigantic, flawless mirror.

And what malys saw in her reflection was more horrifying than all the denizens of Tolvald's Cave put together.

It was her face, and yet it _wasn't_. The face she was staring at was the one she had always remembered—to a point. What had been ashy gray skin was now waxy and pale; the nose was flatter, though it didn't feel broken, and her brow was much more angular and pronounced. A large cleft divided her face down the middle from chin to nose.

But most terrifying of all was her gaze. No living man or mer had eyes that glowed as brightly as these—not even the mysterious eyes of Solyn. They burned like dark suns, and felt like they would burst into flame at any moment.

 _What_ am _I?!_

malys opened her mouth, intending to ask not-Malys just what in Azura's name had happened to her face, and in doing so unwittingly answered her own question: she stared, transfixed, at the wicked fangs that filled her mouth by the dozen. Then she felt her lips curl up—again against her will—into the evilest smile she'd ever seen.

No.

No. That simply was not possible.

"And yet, here I am," not-Malys crowed triumphantly, now speaking with malys' own voice—colder and nastier than she'd ever believed her voice could be. "Against all possible odds, I have _survived_."

And then it was gone, for only a moment, and malys took the opportunity to get a word in edgewise before that evil presence came back. "But … how?" she whispered. "The priest of Meridia—his blade—he should have killed me!"

"Hah! It would have taken more than Meridia's pitiful magic to force _me_ out," not-Malys gloated. "My own memories were sealed too far inside you for a simple sword to kill the _real_ Malys."

Memories? Sealed? The dunmer's head was spinning every which way at this news.

"Maybe you'd like a taste?"

malys was about to say no, but not-Malys had already begun assaulting her with yet more memories of the life she had once lived. she saw the snowy streets of Windhelm in her mind, and felt a hunger gnawing at her stomach—

_—She held out Her tin, starving and begging desperately for septims, but the nords either ignored her or shoved her out of their path; it had been a slow day today, She had not had company in so long, and She constantly wondered how She had been reduced to this—_

The dunmer felt a stabbing pain in her chest, and resisted the urge to cry out. she did not want to be weak—she did not want to give this monster any sort of satisfaction in her torment—

_—one of Her regulars came up to the slum where She made Her home that night; the nord had brought a companion: a kinsman, whose slick black hair shone in the torchlight. He was not of the city, But She didn't care; She wasted no time in seducing the young, handsome man—_

malys closed her eyes, trying her damnedest to avoid seeing the memories being replayed in her head, but all her efforts were for naught—

_—the black-haired nord overpowered Her at Her highest point of pleasure, at the moment when She was ready to come, and for the second time in her life She felt a stinging sensation in Her neck—_

she stared wild-eyed as this last memory faded from her mind. How had she been bitten _twice_? Did that vampire know she had already been turned long ago? Or—

_—She was unpleasantly roused from Her sleep by all manner of weapons in the hands of dozens of people; every one was pointed at Her, and every face flashed with hatred—_

"No … "

 _—"Go back under the ash where you belong!" … "Get away from my children, you gray-skin slut!" …_ _"Gonna run you through like a pig on a spit, filthy elf!"—_

she wished desperately that she would just curl up and die right now—she did not want to relive that night; she cried out silently, wishing for something, anything but the hour when her life had turned into hell—

_—How long She ran, She did not know; Her legs carried her out of the slums, out of the city, and westward along the frozen River White, all the way to Lake Yorgrim. Only then did she stop to catch her breath, only when the signs and sounds of the angry mob had faded away to nothing—_

"he didn't know you'd already been turned," not-Malys sneered in her voice, taking obvious joy in belittling malys as much as She could. "But he didn't care. Once he'd defiled you even more, he threw you to the wolves like a dirty washrag. you were _nothing_ to him … just another means to an end—"

_—There was a cave nearby, a refuge for animals from the snowstorms that constantly buffeted this region of Skyrim; it was empty now, unoccupied … the perfect place for her to hide—_

"But you did more than hide from those bad boys and girls," not-Malys crooned, almost congratulatory in Her delivery. "you _lived_. you survived on the barest scraps. Then, you _slept_. And _then_ … you were transformed."

malys didn't want to believe Her; she tried convincing himself that not-Malys was somehow lying to her—and yet she could _feel_ the truth in Her words. But, if not-Malys was indeed the truth, then why, she wondered, had she not discovered this sooner? Why hadn't that magic sword, Dawnbreaker, worked on her at Rkund? _Why?!_

But for all the questions in her turbulent mind, the fact of the matter was still frightfully clear.

 _Vampire_.

 _i'm a vampire_.

"No," smirked not-Malys. " _I'm_ a vampire. _You're_ just a mistake—a story that should never have been told. You should _never_ have happened. _malys aryon of house hlaalu_ was simply never meant to exist for this long."

Her—malys'—smile grew wider. "And I will make sure of that."

malys suddenly felt an iron vise tighten around her throat; her own hand had latched onto her neck of its own accord. Then the hand _squeezed_ around her windpipe, and she began gagging for breath.

 _If I kill you, we both die_ , said not-Malys matter-of-factly as she strangled malys with her own arm. _But if I can make you weak enough, then I won't have to worry about any more … rude interruptions for a_ very _long time_.

malys tried to beg for not-Malys to stop, but the words would not come out. her limbs would still not move.

 _That's it,_ not-Malys cooed as the dunmer continued to throttle herself _. Don't try to fight it. Just let it happen, and I promise it'll be over before you know it._

Only then did it sink in for malys. she was helpless—lost and alone inside one of the forgotten places of the world.

No one knew she was here.

No one was going to save her.

And as that one final truth hit her, as her vision began to turn gray, malys finally resigned herself to her fate. she would die here, in this forsaken ruin, and Vinye, Cosette, and everyone inside the College would be none the wiser.

The last thing she heard before darkness consumed her forever was not-Malys crooning gently in her ear.

_Good girl …_

For the last time, malys aryon of house hlaalu went to sleep.

And after nearly two centuries of slumber, Mistress Malys awoke.

* * *

She clambered to Her feet uneasily, and took several gulping breaths of the stale air inside the ruin. Her undead body was more powerful now that the seal had been broken, but all the time She'd spent sleeping away the years had not been kind to Her health. She stretched Her arms and legs out for a long while, testing out the flexibility of Her joints; then, when She judged Herself ready at last, She turned to the armored gauntlets behind Her.

Of all of Kagrenac's Tools, Wraithguard was perhaps the most mysterious. No one had ever really agreed on what it looked like—or even if it was only the one gauntlet. Now, however, as Mistress Malys slipped the armor over her hands, it looked as though those questions had finally been answered.

To Her slight annoyance, though, only the right gauntlet appeared to be enchanted. The left was only a look-alike; it was meticulously crafted all the same, but little more than the blacksmith's equivalent of Wraithguard's bastard son.

As Malys finished equipping the gauntlets, something rumbled within the ruin, and there was a shriek of metal against metal as several gates around the chamber burst open. An enormous centurion stepped out from each one—but these were vastly different than the automata inside the Reliquary; these centurions looked more like the guardians of the ruins that had once dotted Vvardenfell. Their right arm ended in a spiked ball, almost as big around as she was tall; their left arm, a heavy, three-fingered claw.

It wasn't long before the two golems noticed Malys standing there. One of them promptly charged, raising its claw high as if to swat Her away, while the other hefted its mace. There was a burst of steam from its shoulder, and the heavy metal sphere launched itself at Her like an arrow from a bow, connected by a thick length of golden chain.

Malys dodged the attacks easily, and she noted with pleasant surprise that the physical prowess of Her body had been amplified significantly; She was faster now, stronger—but by how much was a question yet to be answered.

She concealed a smirk as the twin Dwemer titans prepared another attack—they would be the perfect benchmark.

Both centurions fired their flails this time; they swept them back and forth, destroying the stone columns around the chamber and tearing holes in the wall and the floor. Several times, they came within inches of crushing Her.

She fired one ice spike after another at the centurions, though only for effect—the golems were resistant to all manner of magic, but frost most of all. However, these centurions were not as well armored as the guardians found in the ruins of Skyrim. They were slightly faster and more maneuverable, but their joints and inner workings were also more exposed, and therefore more susceptible to damage—both physical and magical.

So it came as another surprise that one of Her errant spikes, by sheer luck, had lodged itself inside the neck of one of the golems. The construct plucked it out with its claw, but the ice had punched a sizable hole in the machinery in the process. Steam and oil leaked from the hole like blood, and the disabled centurion crashed to the floor.

The remaining centurion swiped at Her with both of its heavy arms, but Malys was too small, too agile—and thanks to the newly awakened abilities of her vampiric body, it didn't even feel like She was wearing armor anymore.

But She was still weaker than She had any right to be. She needed more strength—two hundred years of sleeping within that pitiful mind had drained Her severely. Perhaps this last centurion would be a willing feast …

She reached out with her mind, and listened for echoes within the casing of the centurion. It was common knowledge that the dwemer were masters of enchanting, and they found uses for soul gems that other races could not even begin to grasp, even today. She thought briefly of the falmer, and wondered how many of their souls had been consumed to fuel the machinations of the dwarves.

Within moments Malys found what She was listening for—a faint, tinny screaming, as if a very tiny creature was being tortured day and night without end. She focused Her concentration on that voice, and subconsciously raised Her hand. Vivid, poisonous red tendrils erupted from Her fingers, reaching inside the soul gem housed inside the centurion—its own imitation of a brain and a heart at the same time—and _pulled_.

The trapped soul screamed as Malys extricated it with Her newfound magic, the tether of energy disintegrating the essence of both it and the automaton it had been powering. The screams faded away, and the golden metal crumpled and corroded as She absorbed the soul into Her own body; She did not dare to waste any of that energy, and so She took it all into Herself, restoring a little more of the strength She had lost during Her long slumber.

Then She stood there for a little while longer, admiring the scrap metal that had once been the two guardians of this nameless ruin, and idly flexing Her armored fingers, taking in the view of Wraithguard from every angle. She did not even care that another of kagrenac's ancient tools was in her possession—the chance encounter of that doomed caravan had been fate, surely. She was destined to come _here_ , destined to wake up once again.

Destined to be stronger.

But the essence of the soul inside the centurion had not been enough, Mistress Malys knew. She needed more.

Her only hope was that there would be enough falmer between her and Winterhold to sate Her appetite.

Malys set out from the dwemer ruin, then, in search of more falmer to feed upon. She hoped that would give them some closure after the hell the dwemer had put them through for centuries, and the thousands of years they'd had to fend for themselves in the wake of their disappearance.

they would die, of course—but surely if they were sentient, they would agree that death would be the better option.

She stopped for only a while to strip the caravans, the chests they had carried, and their long-dead guardians of all their worldly gold and belongings; one of the chests carried a flowing black robe, and Malys donned it over Her damaged armor. She could sense the strength of the enchantment woven into the individual threads, how it enriched the natural restoration of Her magickal reserves—or was that merely yet another byproduct of Her vampiric powers?

There were more falmer, more than She had yet encountered before, in the caves beyond the ruined convoy. Malys wasted no time in slaughtering them all—She had nothing to fear from them anymore. She understood now why they could not hear Her, or smell Her—or even why their poison had no effect on Her body. The vampires were creatures of the night; some could even become one with the shadows to avoid detection. They were not among the living, but neither were they dead; the falmer, in spite of their superhuman senses, had become too primitive to understand the fine line that separated the two.

And finally, their poisoned blades hacked and slashed away at Her, only for Malys to heal them without any adverse reaction to the foul agents. Because She was undead, Her blood did not circulate as in a normal, living body, and therefore could not spread the poison to the rest of Her system. All it could do was sit there, mixing with Her blood until the wound was healed. However, Her blood could not replenish itself naturally—and normal healing spells could only go so far. Even Her vampire magic—devastating as it was against the falmer—wasn't a perfect solution.

There was only one real solution to that problem—and She seized Her opportunity as a supercharged ice spike thudded into a falmer's shoulders and staggered him. Malys pounced on him, holding his pulped shoulder in one hand, and his head in the other—and without a second thought, She sank Her fangs into the falmer's neck.

The cave-elf shrieked incoherently as Her teeth punctured through his wrinkled flesh with impunity. The blood tasted sour, and Malys almost spat it out then and there—but She needed to reclaim her strength at any cost. If the falmer had even one sliver of sentience left in their mutated bodies, then that blood, however disgusting it tasted, would bring Her that much closer to full strength.

And sure enough, She felt a warm, pleasant sensation flowing through Her body, slowly but surely—like a roaring hearth in liquid form, but ten times more satisfying. She closed her jaws tighter shut, making sure to drain every last drop of blood, moaning a little in satisfaction as the warmth of the falmer's blood spread throughout Her system.

The other falmer backed away at this brutal show of force. Their fight-or-flight responses kicked in only moments too late; Malys, newly rejuvenated from drinking Her fill, shoved aside the dead husk that had been Her first meal in two hundred years, and eradicated the four remaining creatures in less than a minute—two with the same ice spike.

She meandered through the tight passages of the cave without pausing to savor her victory. She was very close now—she could feel it—the outside world was within her grasp, and she would finally see Skyrim once again.

Eventually, one more cave lay before Her—several falmer tents occupied the space, surrounding a dwemer bridge that spanned a fast-flowing stream. The rush of water was deafening—but soft enough that Malys heard the clicking of the chaurus' pincers a split second before She actually saw it from across the rapids.

The chaurus was huge—easily the size of a young horse, it stood as high as the heavily armored falmer that flanked it, and it was over twice as large as the bugs She'd shattered with Her frost magic. It was oblivious to Malys' presence; currently, it was crouched next to the largest tent in the cave, tearing into the remains of a body.

A body covered in suspiciously spiky armor.

Malys felt a lead weight drop into Her stomach as the mystery of gadriath's disappearance was finally solved. This giant chaurus had somehow snuck in from that chasm above Her in that one cave, snapped him up in its jaws, and retreated back into its lair without a sound. She couldn't help but feel a shudder of horrified shock: She had come very close to dying in that cave, and by something She couldn't even see coming, no less! And that _scared_ Her—because She didn't know if being a vampire would have made the difference in avoiding that chaurus, or even killing it then and there. To creatures like those, food was food, living _or_ dead.

The feeling passed soon enough, though; that was then, and this was now—and now that Malys could see what She was dealing with, She had a plan for how to deal with this monstrous insect.

She strode onto the dwarven causeway, and clenched Her fists to form the same icy arm-blades She'd utilized earlier. Only one falmer guarded this end of the bridge, but the only trouble he presented to Malys was his spine; the Dunmer beheaded him with both blades, crossing and uncrossing them across his neck like a giant pair of shears. Black blood spattered everywhere, and ran into the rapids. The chaurus must have sensed the blood somehow, whether by scent or by some form of taste, as it immediately lumbered across the bridge—straight for Malys.

The vampire was ready. Shattering Her ice blades by tightening Her fists, Malys called on every last ounce of Her strength, and—right as the insect opened its jaws wide enough to grip a wagon wheel—She reached out, and _grabbed_ the chaurus by its pincers, one in each hand. The giant bug screeched and clicked, and flailed about like a worm caught by a bird, but Malys held on for dear life. She had little to fear from the chaurus now that it was trapped; Wraithguard protected Her from the sharp pincers, while Her vampirism protected Her from its poison.

There were still the two remaining falmer, though, and they would have to have been blind _and_ deaf to not notice what was going on. She saw both of them coming towards Her, intent on killing Her while She grappled with the chaurus. One of them was a shaman, judging from the cloak of blue lightning surrounding her body.

With a loud war cry, Mistress Malys heaved and twisted Her body, physically lifting the chaurus off its four spiky legs. She hefted the protesting beast in both hands like a giant flail, and slammed it sideways into the falmer chieftain with an adrenaline-fueled roar. The armored cave-elf was swatted aside, and he hit the cave wall spread-eagled with a shriek of surprise and pain. Her second swing came from above, and physically crushed the falmer shaman into pulp beneath the chaurus' spiky mass. The repulsive bug screeched in agony as the still-electrified remains of the shaman roasted it alive.

The falmer chieftain, meanwhile, had managed to recover from the shock of being bulled off a bridge by his own pet, and he now clutched a heavy, curved axe in his claw, growling at Malys and slashing wildly. He was clearly still addled in his mind, whether from anger or injury; all his attacks were hitting nothing but air—but the movements were so fast and unpredictable that they actually ended up deflecting most of Malys' ice spikes out of sheer luck, which annoyed Her to no end.

After about five shards bouncing off either the falmer's axe or his armor in rapid succession, the Dunmer had had enough. She charged another ice storm in both her hands, and released it just as the falmer leapt to strike at her. The chieftain was flash-frozen in midair, armor and all, and shattered into pieces as he hit the bridge.

But though Malys was finally victorious, Her thoughts could not be further away from victory. As the adrenaline rush from the battle finally wore off, She crossed over to the mangled body of the bosmer, kneeling at his side, and gently stroking what little unspoiled flesh was left.

gadriath had been so horribly mutilated that only his armor gave him away; his face in particular was so badly shredded it was virtually unrecognizable. One arm was simply _gone_ , his right leg was nothing but a crushed mass of flesh and bone, and large chunks of his torso had been physically ripped out by the chaurus' pincers.

Malys regarded gadriath's body for a few moments longer before She repositioned the arms and legs, and tilted his head only a little. She then searched for any sort of linen or cloth; none were available that were clean enough, but there were several burlap sacks scattered around the area. She emptied their contents, and split their seams, turning them into long, unwrapped pieces of burlap; She laid these over gadriath, covering him head to foot in the sackcloth.

She had only known the bosmer for just this one day, and had merely taken him along on a passing whim. The old Malys might have blamed herself for this, and insisted that if she hadn't been so impulsive, this would never have happened. But the old Malys was gone now—She knew there was no use blaming anyone for an event that neither of them could ever have foreseen.

And yet, She still felt a pang of regret. She knew nothing about bosmer burial customs—and so she whispered a brief prayer to Azura, asking her to intercede for the slain mercenary. Hopefully, it would suffice.

At length, She finally stood up from gadriath's covered corpse, and made her way out of Tolvald's Cave—to Shor's Stone, to Whiterun, and to her fellow classmates. There would be no other eulogy, nor would there be any other marker or tomb to commemorate the bosmer's memory—there was only a tacitly spoken, but no less wholehearted,

"Farewell, Gadriath."

* * *

_Outskirts of Whiterun_

_Two nights later_

Mistress Malys dismounted from the carriage with a spring in Her step that She had not felt in a long time—perhaps even before the night She had first been turned. She had slept while the sun was out—covering Her body under Her black robe to protect against its rays, leaving Her more fit and alert during the night. It was early evening; the sun had just disappeared behind the mountains, and She felt a sort of surge within her body as the last bit of light disappeared below the horizon.

After leaving Tolvald's Cave, she'd made her way back to Shor's Stone, intent on selling as much as she could—even with her vampiric strength, lugging around so much treasure took its toll on her physique. But the blacksmith hadn't cared for most of her trinkets, and so she'd trudged south to Riften in broad daylight, as laden as she'd come. By the time She'd boarded a carriage, She had nearly dropped dead from sheer exhaustion, and only just now—after sleeping for most of the journey from Riften, excepting a very rare side of venison in Ivarstead for her lunch—had She been able to fully regain Her strength.

She looked up at the city of Whiterun, growing bigger and bigger with every step she took. The walls of this city had once been imposing fortifications indeed, towering dozens of feet above the plains. But its history of harsh winters and bandit attacks—to say nothing of the Stormcloak rebellion at the turn of the century—had left it a shadow of its former glory. Still, even a shadow could still inspire some measure of pride and fear, Malys knew, and many Nords still viewed this city with pride—and Whiterun's walls still stood high enough to inspire fear in all but the bravest of thugs.

Malys felt only a little uneasy as She crossed the drawbridge leading to the gate. This wasn't Windhelm, but now that her memories were wholly restored again, she still felt like they were looking at her out of the corner of her eye, as if they, too, knew the truth behind the Dunmer striding past them.

As She approached the gate, one of the guards took a few steps towards Her. "You there!" he called out.

Malys froze at the guard's no-nonsense tone. "What is it?" she said uneasily.

"You're that dark elf from the College," said the guard. It was not a question. "Someone's been wanting to speak to you inside. Go on in, but keep your wits about you, or Dragonsreach dungeon will be the last thing you ever see."

He stepped aside, leaving a confused Malys to force open the wooden gate to Whiterun. _Who wants to talk to_ Me?!

Her answer waited in the street before Her, leaning alongside the house of the town blacksmith. When the cloaked figure noticed Malys making Her way into Whiterun proper, she strode forward, purpose in every step—

—and fired a blinding lightning bolt that exploded mere inches away from Malys' boots. The Dunmer leapt back with a cry, and several nearby guards brought hands to arms.

" _What in Dagon's name is your prob—?!_ " Malys started to shout heatedly, but Her voice faltered when the figure lowered her hood, and revealed her face.

"vinye?" Malys was so confounded She forgot to be angry. "you'd better have a good reason … for … "

Malys trailed off as the high elf marched up to Her, and only then did the Dunmer see how _angry_ vinye was. The expression on her olive face looked more severe than ever, and her vivid green eyes sparked with rage.

"You have not been honest with me, _Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu_ ," vinye snarled, an uncharacteristic sneer on her face as she emphasized the name with venomous fury. "You _lied_ to me.

"Now tell me the truth, _right now_ … or I will kill you where you stand."


	10. IX

IX

Years ago, Whiterun had been the site for one of the bloodiest battles of the Stormcloak Rebellion. Nearly half its guard had died, along with many soldiers on both sides. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had been deposed, and Vignar Gray-Mane, patriarch to that influential clan, had taken his place.

All this Vinye knew. But she had never visited Whiterun before since crossing the border into Skyrim, and therefore had felt a moment of despair when she saw the ruined fortifications of the city. Only when the carriage driver had reminded her that the city had yet to fully recover from the effects of the rebellion did she manage to calm herself.

 _I'm not too late after all_ , she had thought, thanking the gods. _I can still stop this!_

She had gone to the Bannered Mare, and rented one of their rooms for several days. And then, Vinye had simply waited for the contingent of Stormcloaks that made up the new town guard to let her know when a certain dark elf made her way up to the city.

Now, barely twenty-four hours later, as she saw that certain dark elf make her way inside the city limits, the Altmer reviewed the contents of the letter Urag had given her one more time.

Vinye did not like being lied to. But it was good to finally put a face to that lie—to the hatred she felt for being played like a child.

"Vinye?" she heard the Dunmer say in surprise and anger—having a lightning bolt missing someone by inches tended to produce those emotions in people. "You'd better have a good reason … for … "

Vinye ignored the agitated shouts of the Stormcloaks nearby as she marched up to Malys, her face stony.

"You have not been honest with me, _Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu_ ," the Altmer spat, preparing another lightning bolt. "You _lied_ to me. Now tell me the truth _right now_ —or I will kill you where you stand."

To her slight surprise, Malys wilted a little in the face of her aggression. "Not here," she said softly; Vinye had to strain to hear her words. The Dunmer looked around furtively at the guards and the growing crowd. "Let's go somewhere else. I've already started one riot in my time—once was enough."

And she pushed herself away from Vinye, who was left to mutter some nonsense about College business and where the passersby could shove their collective nose regarding that business before walking along in her wake, eventually overtaking her and leading Malys to the Bannered Mare.

The inn was quiet, but the sun had set, and soon they would be getting the usual influx of business that came with the nightlife of any city. Only half a dozen people, not including Hulda the bartender, occupied the space around the fire, while a pretty young bard with blonde hair stroked the opening bars of "Tale of the Tongues" on her lute.

Only when Vinye had taken Malys to her room overlooking the bar, and closed the door, did she deem it necessary to resume their conversation. "So," she said tonelessly. "Are you going to tell me your real name now, or should I just send for the guard, have you arrested, and save us both some trouble on the process?"

The Dunmer frowned. "My _name_ is Malys," she said stubbornly, as if it was the simplest fact in the world.

Vinye growled under her breath, and produced the letter Urag had given her. "Read it to me," she said coldly.

Malys took the letter, and repeated the thin, spidery handwriting on the parchment:

 

> _Urag,_
> 
> _Before I begin, I want you to know how difficult it was to get this information. Indeed, were it not for Brelyna's apprenticeship under Master Neloth, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Even then … Neloth is many things, but how he is still alive—let alone still a member of House Telvanni—is beyond my skill to comprehend. At any rate, after Brelyna cleaned up one of his "experiments gone wrong", as he so callously referred to her, he became more willing, albeit grudgingly, to aid me with this task._
> 
> _For all his faults, Neloth is a far more accomplished mystic than I; where my scryes could only reach the recent past and near future, his capacity for divination spans entire centuries, going back to the time of the Red Year. With this, he was able to contact the ancestor spirits of the Dunmer per your request, and what he told me is most disturbing._
> 
> _Firstly, the matter of this Malys Aryon: There was an elf with that name who did indeed belong to House Hlaalu; however, she was last sighted in Blacklight two hundred years ago, fleeing the eruption of Vvardenfell. I would advise you and the rest of the staff to keep a close eye on her at all times, as I suspect this name may be an alias._

_Secondly, the matter of this wizard called Solyn—_

Vinye snatched the paper away from Malys before she could read any further. Now wasn't the time for _that_.

The Dunmer made as if to protest, but the crackling arcs of lightning around Vinye's fingers silenced her quickly, and she sat back down in her seat.

"Two hundred years," Vinye repeated, in a voice that could dissolve ebony. She did not lower her electrified hand. "And yet you don't look a day over twenty. Even high elves don't get so lucky to look so young."

She grabbed Malys by the hand, and flinched almost as soon as she touched the flesh. "You're cold," she said in a hushed voice. "Very cold—a fool might even say you were as _cold as the grave_."

She saw Malys swallow visibly at her choice of words, and as she concealed a smirk, Vinye played her last card.

"So, _Malys Aryon_ … how long have you been a vampire?"

Malys' eyes widened, but only a little, and the tips of her mouth curled in a wry smile. "Well, one of you lot had to figure it out sooner or later," she said, and then she grinned. "I'm just glad you were the one I had to beat to it."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Vinye said smugly. "I had my suspicions about you even before that priest found us at Rkund. I knew something was off ever since that lesson with Tolfdir—the night we first met, when you told me your name. But I never had the evidence to prove it—until I got this letter."

The façade broke for only an instant, and then Malys was as unflappable as ever, but Vinye knew she'd hit a nerve, and so she continued, "After the Oblivion Crisis, House Hlaalu fell out of favor with the other Great Houses of Morrowind. Then, after the Red Year and the Argonian invasion, the other Houses hated them so much that they lost their rank, their standing, and all it implied—including their seat at the Grand Council. No self-respecting Dunmer would ever call herself a part of House Hlaalu after all that— _unless_."

Vinye paused. She had enjoyed watching the effects of her words dissect Malys with a savage pleasure—watching her carefully constructed disguise fall to pieces at the onslaught of her research—of cold, hard facts, of _truth_. But the longer she looked at the Dunmer, the more she noticed how confused Malys looked. There wasn't a trace of fear to be found; instead, there was—was it confusion, relief? Vinye couldn't be sure. And there was something else …

"—unless you genuinely didn't know," she finished, her voice trailing off. Now Vinye was the one feeling confused; even as she finished speaking, she already knew that hypothesis couldn't possibly make sense. How could someone forget the moment they crossed over from the realm of the living to that of the dead?

Malys sighed. "There's a lot I don't know," she replied. "But I'm trying to piece everything back together as best I can. I might tell you about it later on, if I think you've earned the right—I can tell you the process wasn't quick or painless. And there's one other thing I think you ought to know about me."

She rose from her seat, and even though Vinye was still a head taller than she was, the Altmer couldn't help but feel intimidated by Malys' glowing red eyes.

"I didn't get only the one bite," Malys smirked. The air in the room felt like it was growing colder with every word she spoke. "I was bitten _twice_ —by completely different vampires. Their infections battled inside my body—and it nearly tore me apart. I had to sleep for a long time, but it was risky—two hundred years, I had plenty of chances to just give up and die. But I didn't—and look at what it's made me into."

Malys showed her newly pointed teeth in a wide smile, and Vinye tried not to look at them, instead staring back into those infernal glowing eyes while she mulled those words uneasily. _Two vampires? Two attacks?_

"Look at me, Vinye," Malys repeated. "I'm a completely new generation of vampire—the likes of which Tamriel has never seen before." Her smile grew wider. "And right now, I'm feeling _hungry_."

Lightning wrapped around both of Vinye's hands now, and she thrust them both at Malys, prepared to open fire. She had already witnessed the destruction of one city in her lifetime—Vinye was not about to stand by and allow another town to die, not after she'd come so far that she was staring the source of all that potential ruin in the face.

But to her surprise, though, Malys hadn't even batted an eye, merely watching her reaction with a casual, detached amusement. "That's it," she smirked. "Show me that fear. Like a skeever with nowhere to run and hide."

Vinye growled softly as Malys walked up to her, and her hands tensed further, ready to blast this creature apart with an entire storm's worth of lightning if need be.

Malys was now so close to her that her forehead was very nearly touching Vinye's sizzling palm. "You hate me, don't you, Vinye? People fear what they don't understand, and they despise it—they deny it exists for as long as they can. But I know you're better than that … you know that denial's only the first step to something _better_."

Her voice became softer, and Malys now whispered to Vinye as if to a lover. "You once told me you'd give your life to show Tamriel the _truth_ ," she said calmly. "But you never told me if you were prepared to do just that."

And Malys—her eyes reflecting the sparks dancing on Vinye's arms—relaxed. Her smile was now as warm as her undead body was cold. "Well, the truth's out now, Vinye—it's up to you to spread the word. Tell the world what I am, what I could be. Maybe when this is all said and done, you can even publish a book on me."

She took Vinye's hand, still writhing with energy, and placed it gently on her brow. "All you have to do is kill me."

Those eight little words hit the high elf like a kick to the stomach. Malys' monologue had started a chain of images in Vinye's mind, and now she could see herself standing triumphant, resolute of this vampire's broken, smoldering body; she saw the combined assemblage of the Synod and the College of Whispers, united after two centuries within the Arcane University at her request, as she told them of her findings in Raldbthar, of the long-lost Falmer and their new culture under the mountains of Skyrim.

And then Vinye saw herself talking about the one vampire she had killed; the shifting, faceless masses in her mind—once merely showing interest—were now outright ecstatic; they bombarded her with questions about this new breed of vampire: how strong was she, what were her capabilities, and on and on and on—

… And it _sickened_ her.

 _Do it_ , a little voice whispered in her head. _Tamriel will be all the safer, and they'll have you to thank for it_.

 _I trusted her_ , Vinye thought angrily. _I called her my_ friend!

 _She's a threat!_ hissed the voice. _If the Synod or the College knew you'd let this one chance get away, they'd never let you back in again._

But was it worth it to go back now?

Vinye looked at Malys again; the Dunmer had closed her eyes, though had not squeezed them shut. She actually looked quite peaceful, the Altmer thought. If she unfocused her eyes, she could almost believe Malys wasn't a vampire right now.

And then, a familiar voice echoed in her mind, speaking words that had only been spoken a short time ago, but the cap between then and now felt like an eternity: _"The day the truth you've been following finally comes out … is the day when scholars like you won't have any place in Tamriel anymore … "_

That was enough to sway Vinye.

She unclenched her fingers, and the blue glow of lightning slowly faded from her hands.

Malys slowly opened her eyes as the sizzling noise died, and smiled at Vinye's expression. " _Good girl_ ," she said.

Vinye sensed the veil in the compliment—and suspected Malys had played her yet again—but did not comment on either. "Being good had nothing to do with it, Malys," she said bluntly. "I've told you about the people I had to deal with when I studied magic in Cyrodiil—their double-crossing, their fabrications and lies. If I'd killed you, I'd have murdered a colleague—danger to the world be damned. And I wouldn't be any better then _them_."

She sighed. "And there's one other thing. I remember what you told me, that night in the Arcaneum—and you're wrong. Tamriel will _always_ need scholars, Malys—even after all the secrets in the world are nothing more than common knowledge. After all, _someone_ has to make sure we don't forget the truth—that elves and men alike can learn from their mistakes."

She perched herself on the bedspread. The words were floating up her throat now, and she felt a heavy weight lift from her shoulders as she mentally steeled herself. Malys had just revealed herself as a vampire; it was only fair that Vinye told her about her brief life as a justiciar. "And while we're on the subject of the truth," she said, after taking a long breath, "I should probably say I haven't been entirely honest about myself, either."

Malys looked only slightly intrigued as she sat back down, ready to hear Vinye's confession—when suddenly the noises from the bar down below intensified slightly in volume.

Malys heard the change in tone as well, and frowned. "Voices," she said. "They sound angry, too."

"Maybe Cosette's here," Vinye remarked—but only in jest. None of the voices sounded like they belonged to the tiny Breton girl. Given what Vinye had seen of Cosette's temper, however … "We should probably go downstairs."

She pointed a slim finger at Malys. "But don't think we're done talking," she said menacingly. "That's the only warning I'm ever going to give you, Malys. If you give me even one little reason to believe you're a danger to _anyone_ , then I will make you wish that priest of Meridia had killed you when he had the chance."

And she opened the door, indicating Malys ought to leave first; Vinye would follow, and keep an eye on her from a safe point. While the high elf was inwardly breathing a sigh of relief that the danger appeared to have passed, she still wasn't going to take any chances. There wouldn't be any mead for her tonight—if she had to sleep with one eye open tonight, she would keep this vampire under a tight watch.

* * *

When the two mages made their way down, however, they were surprised to see Cosette was nowhere in sight. The cause of the commotion had instead come from three strange men—clad head-to-toe in dirty brown armor that Vinye had never seen before. One of them was arguing with Hulda, whose face was brick red and livid with fury.

"What gives you the right to barge in my inn?!" the bartender shouted at the tallest of the trio, who Vinye assumed was the leader.

"We have authority that even your High King cannot dispute," said the tall man. Vinye caught the rough accent of a dark elf, and saw something clutched in his hand. "We're looking for someone, and we know she's here."

Vinye noticed someone sidle behind her. She turned her head, and saw Malys behind and to her right; her eyes looked fearful, and Vinye couldn't blame her—this looked like it was about to turn nasty.

"I don't care who you're looking for," Hulda snarled at them. "You're not in Morrowind anymore. This is Skyrim—and we know how to deal with outsiders who don't respect our laws."

Suddenly, Vinye caught a shift of movement out of the corner of her eye, this time off to her left. The pretty young bard was edging toward them, clutching her lute so tightly that the Altmer could see her fingernails leaving marks in the wood. A cowl covered her eyes, and though Vinye couldn't see them, she guessed they betrayed just as much fear as Malys was. She nodded to the Dunmer, indicating the bard. Wordlessly, they slowly moved toward her.

The tall elf grunted harshly, and suddenly all three men were bristling with elven weaponry. At once, everyone else inside the bar leapt to their feet, unsheathing swords and axes with a clamor of steel and angry oaths.

"Find her!" said the elf, above all the commotion. The two elves either side of him moved away, fanning out across the inn.

And then quite a few things happened. First, Vinye felt a small _whiff_ of air close by her left ear. A second later, the armored figure nearest them coughed slightly, and pulled something small out of his chest.

One second after that, he toppled to the floor of the bar, dead.

The patrons of the inn fell silent at this, and Vinye noticed—with an increasingly unsettling feeling in her stomach—that they were all looking at her.

"Um," she said, her mouth suddenly feeling very dry.

"There she is!" cried the elf, pointing at the mages. " _Take her!_ "

In the ensuing commotion, Vinye wildly thought _What did_ I _do?!_ while charging up her lightning and preparing for a fight. But at the same time, the bard had shoved them aside and leapt into the fray, brandishing her lute like a—

 _Wait_.

Vinye closed her eyes, and opened them again. No, she wasn't seeing things—the lute wasn't a lute anymore. The two struts on both sides of the bridge had been pulled forwards and outwards, spread like wings, and the Altmer saw a short, thick cord connecting the two ends at a near-right angle. The bard hefted this strange object with the headstock resting on her shoulder, her fingers resting between the strings.

Malys was completely nonplussed. "Is … that a _crossbow_?"

The bard's fingers _twitched_ , and the thick cord _jumped_. Vinye saw a small, thin projectile resting on the neck of the lute for only a moment. Then it was _gone_ , and a second armored assailant screamed, clutching at his chest as he too collapsed against the counter, rapidly surrounded in a growing pool of his own blood.

The tall elf growled in annoyance as he saw his comrades lying around him, dead as doornails. "Damn it!" he snarled at the bard. "I'll split you like—"

The Dunmer never got to say exactly what he was going to split the maiden like: in the time it took for him to make that threat, the bard had nocked another bolt on her crossbow, pointed it at the elf, and let fly with a loud _twang_. The bolt lodged itself in his throat, and his last curse ended in a pathetic noise that sounded a bit like " _gahkk_."

Silence fell over the Bannered Mare as the elf finally expired. No one dared to speak or make a sound as the bard lowered her makeshift weapon, crossed the length of the bar, and pulled out a large coin purse. She scribbled something on the bulging sack, and passed it to Hulda. The bartender picked up the purse, frowned as she peered inside it, before eventually placing it inside her apron with a grunt.

Hulda glared at her speechless customers. "Well, what are you staring at?" she growled icily. "Someone find Andurs and tell him we got three more for Arkay. Uthgerd, take the trash out back. I just had this place cleaned up, and I don't want it stunk up again 'cause of a few bodies. Come on, then—get them out of my sight!"

A burly female clad in plate armor rose from her seat with a grunt, and heaved all three bodies over her shoulder like sacks of flour as she made for the door—but not before Malys had sorted through their belongings and found a sealed scroll on the one elf. She opened it up, and what little color remained in her waxy face drained.

She read out loud, "'Honorable Writ of Execution: Rolega the Quiet.

'The slain personage before you has been marked for execution as a member of an unlawful guild … blah blah blah … of the _Morag Tong?!_ " Malys' voice rose in incredulity as she finished reading the document. "The Bearer of this non-disputable document has official sanctioned license to kill the afore-mentioned personage.'"

At the words "Morag Tong," a collective shiver had gone around the bar, and Vinye felt her spine prickle as she recalled where she'd heard the words before. _The Morag Tong … the war in Riften … Maven Black-Briar …_

Hulda groaned. "That does it," she groused. "First those mercenaries from Hammerfell, then that stuffed-shirt Imperial, and now a bunch of assassins from Morrowind! I'll have Sinmir's head for this—he knows what it's like in here; drunkards, brawls, and fights, and still he won't listen to me! If I have to go straight to Jarl Vignar … "

While Hulda continued her ranting and raving, the other patrons of the inn had gradually resumed their business. Malys and Vinye, meanwhile, sat down at a relatively secluded table to try and calm their racing hearts. Neither of them had been to a bar before, never mind a bar fight, and so neither of them had anything to say at first—instead choosing to slump in their seats in relief, as if to say, "Well—that just happened."

A dainty hand thumped down between them, clutching a cowl, a wad of parchment, and a mass of blonde hair. The two mages turned around to see the bard with the deadly lute sitting down in the chair between them. The blonde hair was nothing more than a wig, and had concealed a considerable amount of shiny black hair.

Now that Vinye had a closer look at her, the bard didn't look so pretty. She was a Nord, with a face was almost as well maintained as her hair, but it was also very pale and gaunt—like it had been carved from weathered white marble. Her body looked smooth, her skin soft but taut over deceptively spindly arms. It was the eyes, however, that made Vinye feel especially anxious. They were deep-set above her high cheekbones, and caked in thick black makeup. By some unknown jest of nature, the eyes themselves were also black as night; Vinye had the impression she was staring back at a skull.

Again, she pardoned her Cyrodiilic—but this was the _creepiest_ Nord she'd ever laid eyes upon.

The would-be bard now clutched a quill, its tip wet with ink. She scrawled something on the parchment before her, and tapped it with her quill—indicating they should both read it.

 _Sorry for trouble_ , it said in an untidy cursive. _Damn Tong never forget face—years, chasing me._

Malys cocked an eyebrow as she deciphered the writing. "So you're Rolega the Quiet, then?"

A nod. "Why do they call you that?" Vinye asked inquisitively. The Nords loved their monikers and nicknames, it was true—but they were anything but quiet.

Rolega put quill to parchment again. _Wolf attack. Falkreath_ , she scrawled. _Little girl_. She inclined her head slightly, and both mages winced as they saw the horrible scar that slashed across her neck at a diagonal.

 _Not so bad_ , Rolega continued writing with a shrug. _Can talk still. Painful. Only whisper_. She paused briefly to dip her quill in an inkwell. _Voices quicker, but change. Quill, ink better. Writing forever. Reliable. Better business_.

It was very difficult for Vinye to read the terse, fragmented tone of the writing. From what she could understand, Rolega believed in the power of the written word; stories told through oral tradition were subject to change, Vinye knew, and thus the truth could be lost forever if the records were ill-maintained. Stories printed as books, on the other hand, could be preserved for potentially all of eternity—and when the time came to copy the text from an old, ruined manuscript into a much newer tome—all it took was ink and paper, rather than a need to remember the spoken word with perfect recall.

Rolega made a wavering gesture with her free hand when Vinye mentioned this to her, which the Altmer took to mean as "not quite." Still, she felt her respect for the mute Nord rise. "I like to read myself," Vinye told her. "I might even _write_ a book one day—I've not been in Skyrim long, but I've learned a lot already."

"What about the Tong?" Malys wanted to know. "Why would they come out all this far just to kill a bard?"

Rolega gave the Dunmer an odd look, and began scribbling furiously on a new sheet of parchment. _Not bard; once, with Guild in Riften._ She pointed to herself with a hint of pride, and then added, _think me bard? Think elves normal for mages peeking in dwarven cities._ She shot another look at Malys, and cracked an impish grin.

Malys and Vinye exchanged glances at the writing on the parchment. "You're with the Thieves Guild?" Malys asked, at exactly the same time Vinye inquired, "What do you know about the Dwemer?"

Rolega looked at them with some amusement before pointing to Vinye, then rummaging in her own satchel. To the elves' complete astonishment, the Nord pulled out a blue, glowing crystal whose half-moon shape looked a little _too_ familiar to Vinye.

She quickly rummaged in her satchel, and her surprise rapidly changed to horror when she noticed that the strange crystalline object she'd found in Raldbthar wasn't anywhere to be found.

It took her a moment to put two and two together. "Hey!" she cried out indignantly, and made a swipe for the artifact. Rolega didn't resist, and relinquished the crystal to her with another mischievous smile.

Vinye wasn't pleased. "You ought to learn to keep your hands to yourself," she warned threateningly as she pocketed it in her bag—taking extra care to seal the lining this time.

Rolega shrugged. _Thief_ , she wrote. _Old habits never die_. She turned to Malys. _Joined with Guild when weak. Fellow thief made crossbow. Good with hands, not so with feet. Markarth: caught by guard, dead. Now, Guild strong in Markarth, all over Skyrim, beyond_ , _but left at peak_. She pointed to herself before resuming her writing. _Left before Black-Briar._

"Can you tell us anything about that?" Malys asked when she saw the name. "We heard something in Riften—that someone contacted the Morag Tong to kill Maven Black-Briar. It sounded like the Guild was involved, too—maybe even the Dark Brotherhood."

Rolega made a noise for the first time—a horrible, gurgling sound from her ruined throat as she voiced her disagreement. _Rogue Tong killed Maven_ , she scribbled, nearly upsetting her inkwell in her silent anger _. Writ not sanctioned. Guild, Brotherhood framed. Hunted. Brotherhood quiet, closed off. No side, no word. Guild fight Tong, bloody. Under Tamriel, war now. War in shadow—none know._

Vinye didn't like the sound of that. An underground war—potentially being fought right under their noses—between the Thieves Guild of Skyrim and the Morag Tong of Morrowind? _No wonder Riften's closed off to the outside—it's right in the thick of the battleground_. And then there was the Dark Brotherhood; Vinye had to assume "no side, no word" meant the Brotherhood was not taking sides in this so-called war. She wasn't sure how to feel about that; frankly, one resurgent assassins' guild in Tamriel was enough.

She didn't notice Rolega's next message until the Nord prodded her hand with the tip of her quill. Peering down at the parchment, she read, _Once, Dwemer treasure illegal; hold and sell on pain of death. Needed writ of Emperor. Now, no more Emperor, artifacts worth many septims—many buyers come, many collectors of Dwemer trinkets,_ _many bidders_ _._ Rolega tipped her quill at this last bit, underscoring its message even further.

And suddenly Vinye understood. "You're looking for Dwemer artifacts, too?" she said, loud enough for Malys to hear. The Altmer pulled her pack a little tighter around her robe, and Malys looked at Rolega suspiciously.

 _If paying_. Rolega looked at both mages in a very meaningful way, and rubbed her thumb and index fingers together to drive her point home. _Not alone. Others in Skyrim, others search. Willing to steal. Willing to kill._

Vinye felt a sinking feeling in her stomach as the words sank in. This could only mean one thing, perhaps two. Firstly, Rolega knew about Solyn in some way, potentially even as much as Drevis Neloren, Urag, and—as of a few days ago, Vinye—now knew. Even if she was no longer with the Guild, Rolega must still be privy to underworld channels; if that was the case, it would be easy for anyone with ties to the Thieves Guild to hear something in passing, no matter how cleverly the information was transmitted from one place to the other.

Secondly—and this was much more disturbing—there were others searching for Dwemer relics as well. And if Rolega's handwriting was to be believed, they were in Skyrim—and they would go to whatever end to take as many relics of the dwarves as they could. They would be willing to steal and murder and lie—and the consumer would be none the wiser … or, if he felt particularly unscrupulous, he would conveniently look the other way.

And in a way, this proved what Drevis had said about Solyn in his letter to Urag—but Vinye was not ready to disclose those details yet. It was definitely something the Arch-Mage needed to be informed of, and if Urag was half as smart as Vinye hoped, he'd have told Grimnir already. Malys and Cosette … probably, she thought, but Vinye would have to choose her words carefully. _Best if I keep this as quiet as possible_.

"The sooner Cosette comes to Whiterun, the better," she told Malys in a hushed voice after summarizing Rolega's message. "She needs to know what's going on here. We may be facing some competition—we need to be ready."

Rolega scrawled on the parchment. _One more word—one more artifact. None know, none can find, not me_.

Vinye felt her heart rise a little; information was always useful—always assuming, of course, that it was true. "What kind of artifact?" she asked.

The Nord inscribed a single word, and showed it to the two mages. Malys pursed her lips, but Vinye arched her eyebrows; both caught the other's expression, and instinctively knew they'd heard the word before.

"Can you tell us where to find this?" Vinye asked eagerly.

Rolega shook her head, and tapped her thumb and forefinger again. Vinye understood the message well enough, and grunted in annoyance. "No, thanks." _I spent enough gold on that carriage ride_ , she thought bitterly. _I went on a wild-goose chase for nothing._

Rolega heaved herself up from her stool at that moment, holding a hand up to her mouth in a silent yawn, and began gathering her many scraps of parchment.

"Wait," Malys said. "One more thing. You told us there's going to be more people out there, all of them searching for dwarven treasure, right?"

Rolega nodded.

Malys crossed her arms. "So what's stopping you from telling _them_ about _us_?"

The thief put a finger to her chin in thought, and scribbled more furiously than ever on her sheaf of parchment. _Push. All need push. Only questions: who to push, when to push, how far to push._

And with that, the thief turned on her heel, tossing the used scraps of parchment into the fireplace of the bar, where they curled and shriveled in the flames. Rolega the Quiet clutched her crossbow (now folded back into its lute shape) and made her way upstairs without any sign of goodbye.

Malys watched her go with a bemused look that did not suit the vampire's face at all. "What'd she mean by that?"

"I'm not sure," Vinye replied. "It's probably simpler than we're thinking, though. She did say she was a thief, Malys. All she cares about is money; she doesn't care what's being sold—or who's being sold out."

"A mercenary," Malys said. "I had to hire one to help me while I was combing the Velothi range." Her face fell. "If it wasn't for him, I don't think I'd be sitting here right now."

"Did you find anything?"

Malys pulled back the sleeve of her robe, and Vinye's heart jumped when she caught a glimpse of an armored gauntlet before Malys replaced it over her forearm. "Is that—?"

"Wraithguard," Malys nodded, keeping her voice at a whisper. Her eyes shifted left and right at the people in the inn, as if she were expecting Rolega to leap out any minute now and try to rob them of their treasure—and Vinye couldn't blame her. "I wish I didn't know there were other people hunting for dwarven treasure at the same time," she sighed. "I've already got one bulls-eye painted on my chest now that I'm a vampire—no harm in adding another one, right?"

Vinye smiled wryly as she pulled out a mass of wrapped linen from her satchel. "You think _you've_ got a bulls-eye? You should see what I found in this ruin east of Windhelm." She held it out of sight of the rest of the crowd inside the Bannered Mare, but Malys could see the package just fine if she leaned over.

When Malys did see it, she leapt back so quickly that several Nords nearby looked at her suspiciously before shrugging and returning to their mead. "Sunder?!" mouthed the Dunmer, and Vinye noted with some concern that Malys looked faintly sick all of a sudden.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," Malys said, swallowing. "I was hoping we wouldn't find all three of Kagrenac's Tools. Part of me was hoping they'd all been destroyed in the Red Year."

"All three?" Vinye frowned. "Are you saying you"—she lowered her voice conspiratorially—"found Keening?"

Malys shook her head. "Not exactly. The Arch-Mage had Keening," she said, and Vinye's eyes widened. "I tried to sneak into his room after we came back from Rkund—that's why I didn't meet you and Cosette in the Arcaneum until a lot later—and I found it hanging on his wall."

Vinye was stunned. "How in Oblivion did he come by Keening?"

She listened as the Dunmer told her about nearly missing a severe punishment when the Arch-Mage himself had caught Malys, of how Keening had been recovered after more than two hundred years, and the ghost of Arniel Gane and his failed experiment. That certainly explained why Malys had looked the way she did that night in the Arcaneum, she thought. She felt a brief surge of vindictive pleasure at the anecdote. _Serves her right_.

"I don't know what he did with Keening," Malys finished, "but the Arch-Mage said he would help me only that one time, so I'm guessing he's already delivered it to Solyn."

Vinye pounded the table with a fist. "Damn it." That was _not_ the news she'd wanted to hear.

Malys looked at her strangely. "Vinye, what is it about that wizard that's got you so worried?" she asked. "Does it have something to do with that letter you showed me?"

"Something like that," Vinye said hesitantly. "I don't want to say anything until Cosette shows up—she deserves to know, too. There's too many people here, and I don't trust any of them."

"Do you trust me?"

Vinye saw the pleading look on Malys' face—and for one fleeting moment, she was almost persuaded. "No. No, I don't," she said simply. "Trust isn't that easy to win back, Malys. I'm willing to give you a chance—but if you want to get back into my good graces, then you've got a lot of work to do."

The Dunmer looked surprisingly relieved to hear that. "I wasn't expecting anything less from you, all things considered," she said grudgingly. "But you can't be on your own forever, Vinye. If we're going to make this work—if _I'm_ going to make this work—then you need to promise me that much."

Vinye hesitated. She was more than capable of pulling her own weight, and she'd already done so much on her own—discovered cultures and worlds both seen and unseen, stretched the limits of her magickal abilities further than she'd ever thought possible.

And up until one day ago, she didn't think that would change one bit.

But _everything_ had changed now. What had started as a way to give the College a much-needed boost in finances, recognition—and who knew what else—had now become a twisting labyrinth of lies and deceit. And whether they liked it or not, she, Cosette, and Malys were all in this together.

She sighed, and gradually nodded. "All right," she said softly. "Together."

She reached her hand out to Malys, and the Dunmer did the same. As warm hand shook cold hand, Vinye felt the tension of the past twenty-four hours lift from her shoulders. She slumped in her chair and sighed.

"By the way, Vinye," Malys piped up, "do you know anything about that crystal Rolega swiped from you?"

Vinye frowned. "I can't say I do," she replied. "Maybe I've got a book on it somewhere, but I don't really feel like turning my bags inside out just to look for one book." She blinked. "I think I really need to get some rest," she added, "because I don't know any other reason I'd say something like that."

Malys was rummaging in her pack. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Because Wraithguard wasn't all I found. I also found _this_ in some kind of storeroom near Mzulft. I don't know how J'zargo missed it when he was there."

Vinye stared in complete shock as Malys pulled another glowing blue half-moon from her satchel. Except for the indentations in the center, it looked virtually identical to the crystal Vinye had found in Raldbthar.

"I have no idea," the Altmer said softly, as she continued to marvel at the object. "I have no idea at all … "

* * *

After that, there had not been much reason for Vinye and Malys to stay awake any further. The tension of the past few days had taken its toll on both of them, and recent events had, if anything, made matters worse. And so they elected to turn in for the night; Vinye had rented out a room for the week, and shilled out a few more septims so Malys could have her own place to sleep—right where the Altmer could keep an eye on her.

The night that followed was one of the worst, most sleepless nights of Vinye's life. Even those first few weeks she'd been on the run from Falinesti hadn't caused so much paranoia as the vampire sleeping in the bedroll five feet away from her. Rolega's revelations of competition were no help—when Vinye wasn't anticipating Malys to leap up and drink her dry, she was anticipating their door to be kicked down by a dozen thieves, sellswords, and mercenaries. And then, to round off the horrible night, the steady pitter-patter of rain was beginning to beat on the windowsill, punctuated with the occasional rumble of thunder.

Eventually, the Altmer grew tired of the constant noise, and rose from the bed. A small pick-me-up might be able to help calm her nerves, she decided, and so she descended the stairs to the bar. Only a smattering of people were here as opposed to the small crowd earlier in the night; Rolega the thief was not among them.

Hulda appeared almost as soon as she'd sat down at the counter. "What can I get you?" she asked, her demeanor noticeably more cheerful than it had been after last night's altercation.

"Alto wine," Vinye replied. "Something with a little spice to it, if you have any—last night was rougher on me than I thought," she added sheepishly.

Hulda clucked her tongue sympathetically. "Aye." She disappeared in the back of the bar for a minute, and returned with a bright green bottle. "That'll be fifteen septims."

Once Vinye had paid the bartender, she uncorked the bottle and took a small draught, feeling the slightly fiery taste of the liquor warming her insides. Slowly but surely, she felt her troubled mind relax, and all thoughts of Malys and treasure hunters sank out of sight.

She dug into her satchel as she took another drink, and thumbed through the tomes she'd brought with her. _Tamrielic Lore_ was there; she would have to cross-reference that with Rolega's claims later on, Vinye thought. Then her fingers brushed across a much newer book.

Vinye had completely forgotten about Urag giving her a copy of _The Aetherium Wars_. Aetherium … that almost sounded like it could be the name of a substance, thought the Altmer. Perhaps that was what the dwarves called that miraculous metal found all over the ruined cities they'd left behind. Or perhaps it was … Her thoughts went to the crystal shard sitting in her satchel, and she finally pried open the book after taking another sip of wine:

 

> _Dedicated to Katria,_ _my Friend and Colleague_
> 
> _…_
> 
> _For centuries, scholars have marveled at the sudden collapse of the Dwemer city-states. Even the Nords seem to have been taken by surprise, though their chroniclers were quick to ascribe their success to King Gellir's inspired tactics and the blessings of Shor._
> 
> _My research suggests a much different cause, however. In the decades preceding their fall, the dwarven cities of Skyrim had been decimated by internal disputes and infighting over a most surprising cause: Aetherium._
> 
> _Modern scholars know Aetherium as a rare, luminescent blue crystal found in some Dwemer ruins. Most consider it little more than a curiosity, as it has proven all but impossible to work with: while it has a strong magical aura, it is alchemicially inert, and no known process can enchant, smelt, mold, bind, or break it._
> 
> _To the dwarves, of course, such problems were merely a challenge. In the years following King Harald's reign, the Dwemer discovered a considerable source of Aetherium in their deepest delvings. An alliance of four cities, led by Arkngthamz, the great research center in the southern Reach, was formed to oversee its extraction, processing, and study, and a new 'Aetherium Forge' constructed to smelt it under precisely controlled conditions._
> 
> _If the inscriptions I discovered are to be believed, the results were nothing short of spectacular: the items produced by the Forge were artifacts of immense power, imbued from the moment of their creation with powerful enchantments. The dwarven alliance shattered almost immediately, as the four city-states and their rivals attempted to claim the Forge._
> 
> _…_
> 
> _But nothing like the Aetherium Forge described in the inscriptions has ever been found within the borders of Skyrim. It may have been destroyed long ago, by the Nord invaders or the Dwemer themselves. Or perhaps it, like the secrets of Aetherium itself, still remains to be discovered._

Vinye closed the book and pocketed it with some difficulty, as her fingers were trembling slightly. _Aetherium_ … She brushed the cool surface of the blue crystal shard, nestled comfortably in her bag. She dared not take it out now; in some ways, Vinye regretted that she'd discovered this information. Now that she knew what it was called, and the power it was capable of, the Altmer's mind was clanging with dozens of alarm bells.

This little blue crystal was one big bulls-eye.

And Malys had found some of that Aetherium as well … Vinye suddenly felt sick.

 _Many buyers come, many collectors of Dwemer trinkets,_ _many bidders_ _…_

Suddenly the front door of the Bannered Mare banged open with enough force to rattle the candles on the tables. Vinye, shaken from her thoughts, turned to look for the commotion, and her heart rose when she saw who was at the front door.

Cosette Ionsaithe was soaked head-to-toe in the rain shower, and looked in a very bad mood indeed. Even when she noticed Vinye sitting down at the counter, she did not give any sign of recognition—instead crossing the length of the inn, and planting herself on the stool next to her.

"Firebrand. _Now_ ," she growled at Hulda the minute she'd sat down, and slammed a fistful of septims on the rude wood of the counter. "I've had a bad week."

Hulda backed away slightly from the hostile tone in the tiny Breton's voice, and she set about checking her cellar for the drink in question. An uncomfortable silence hung between the two mages like an axe on a thread.

"So … how was your trip?" Vinye finally ventured, attempting an awkward smile.

Silence.

 _Okay—probably not talking about the Dwemer_ , Vinye thought with a quirked eyebrow. She searched for another topic of conversation, and she felt her eyes drawn to the not one, but _two_ crude swords strapped over Cosette's robe in an X.

"I like the new sword," lied the Altmer through her teeth. "Where did you find it?"

Cosette didn't even look in her direction. " _Not_ in the mood," she spoke through clenched teeth. Hulda reappeared with a red-labeled glass bottle in her hand, filled with something bright red and smelling slightly of smoke. The Breton wasted no time in tipping back the flask into her mouth and taking a deep drink.

"Ugh—watered down," she grumbled, banging the now half-full bottle on the counter. She finally turned to look at Vinye, and the high elf did a double take at the look in Cosette's face. It was ruddy and flushed, especially near the eyes—which themselves were quite red as well. Moreover, some of the wetness on her face didn't look like it had been caused by rain; suddenly, Vinye was starting to believe that the rain had nothing to do with Cosette's mood.

"Cosette … have you been crying?"

"I said I'm not in the mood!" Cosette snapped—so loudly her voice cracked—and Vinye recoiled at the harsh tone of voice.

Just as quickly, however, Cosette had slumped in her stool with a groan. "I got the Spellbreaker," she said. Vinye was surprised to hear this, and immediately gestured at Cosette to keep her voice down.

But the Breton continued unabated. "Met the family," she continued belligerently, her eyes misting over in what Vinye thought might have been either wistful nostalgia—or perhaps a sense of regret—compounded with what the Altmer guessed was some very potent liquor. "Had some time to spare, so I killed some Forsworn, got a new blade out of it.

"What about you?" Vinye could hear the derision in Cosette's question. "I'm guessing you were all fine and dandy this past week, huh? Found an artifact every other day?"

Vinye stood up so abruptly she kicked aside her stool, and it clattered to the floor—but she didn't hear it, and neither did she care.

"All right—what is your problem?" the Altmer shouted at the top of her lungs, not even caring that other patrons were beginning to stop and stare. "Did you think this was some kind of insignificant game, Cosette? Are Dwemer relics just sticks and stones and pretty shiny things to you?! Are you that much of a _child?!_ "

Cosette drew herself to her full height—which wasn't much next to Vinye, but the fire in her eyes was burning so brightly it was almost palpable. "You've got a lot of nerve calling me a child," she growled at the Altmer; Vinye could smell the smokiness of the wine Cosette had drunk, and suppressed the urge to cough.

"My family and I have survived in the Reach by the skin of our teeth for longer than I can remember," Cosette continued to rave. Her face was growing redder by the second. "What about you, Vinye? Huh?! I bet life was good in the Dominion for you, wasn't it? All pampered and spoiled? Were you were crying for mommy and daddy the first night you came to the College?"

At that moment, Vinye didn't care that Cosette had probably drunk far more liquor than her small body could handle, and probably did not mean the words coming out of her mouth. All she remembered was a surge of fury rearing up like a bear on its hind legs. The next thing she knew, she was lashing out with her open hand, and there was a sharp flare-up of pain as her palm connected squarely with Cosette's red cheek.

But Vinye did not stop there. "My father was a fool who was slaughtered by his own massacre!" she stormed at the Breton. "I can never face my mother again because of what he did; I can't ever go back to the Summerset Isle. At least _you_ still have a family," she raged. "At least you can come home to a mother and father who still _love you!_ "

Cosette didn't even seem to move. For one second, her left arm was a blur—and suddenly Vinye felt the breath knocked hard out of her stomach as Cosette's fist drove into her chest, knocking her against the counter.

"You don't get to talk about my family!" Cosette snarled. " _You haven't earned the right!_ " Her fist pulled back. She was aiming squarely for Vinye's head—and the Altmer was still too winded to dodge the inevitable punch.

The next thing she knew, though, a powerful force had seized her by the scruff of her robe and yanked her forward.

WHACK.

Stars danced in front of Vinye's eyes as she stumbled back, stunned by the unexpected blow to her forehead. Her forehead felt like it was about to split open, it was hurting so bad, but as Vinye pried open an eye, she noticed—with some degree of satisfaction—that the Breton was also massaging her forehead, groaning in pain and swearing nonstop under her breath.

"That's enough out of you both!"

Only then did Vinye notice Hulda the bartender backing away from them both and back behind the counter. "It's too early in the morning for that kind of rabble-rousing!" groused the Nord as she wiped her hands on a slightly dirty cloth. "Now put a lid on it before I decide to knock your heads one more time, hear?

"And that goes for the rest of you lot!" she bellowed at the few customers inside the bar. "I'll be having no more fights under my roof! We'll see how much you louts want to settle a fight with the town guard!"

Only a few groans and grumbles met Hulda's ire. The publican growled under her breath, and returned to her duties as though she had not just butted the skulls of two mages together with her bare hands.

The two mages in question now slumped on their adjacent stools, still rubbing their temples and grumbling.

" _Unnh_." Cosette was first to speak. "Those headbutts have a way of clearing your head," she groaned. "That was my third bottle of firebrand wine in two days—I guess that's my limit."

She noticed Vinye giving her an odd look. "And I'm fine, thanks for asking."

The Altmer was not convinced. "Are you sure?" she said delicately. "I'm guessing since you got Spellbreaker, you were able to summon Peryite without too much trouble." She paused, noticing Cosette's face grow dark all of a sudden. "I hope … "

The Breton's fists tightened for a tense few seconds, and then they relaxed. "I'm not really ready to talk about it right now," Cosette said lamely—like all the fire had gone out of her after being manhandled by the bartender. "I got a lot more than I bargained for, and I paid the price—and all the Dwemer artifacts in Tamriel aren't going to make a dent in that."

There was no hostility behind the words—no promise of dying a horrible death—but nonetheless, Vinye decided not to pry into the subject any further.

A familiar yawn came from behind them, and Vinye turned to see Malys walking towards them. "I thought I heard your lovely voice, Cozy," the Dunmer mumbled, ruffling her messy hair in a feeble attempt to make it straight.

" _Someone_ looks like they've been burning the candle at both ends," Cosette remarked. "No, seriously, Malys—what in Oblivion happened to your face?"

Malys and Vinye exchanged looks, the Dunmer feeling her ridged brow and cleft lips, as if she'd just noticed they were there. "Ran into some trouble in the Rift," Malys said, a little too innocently. "I didn't cast my healing spell right, and I'm not too sure if the damage is reversible at this point in time."

Cosette's expression was completely unreadable. " … Uh-huh," she eventually settled on. "You do realize I'm not going to let this one go any time soon, Malys? Cheating at conjuration is one thing"—she gave Vinye a look—"but failing to cast a simple healing spell? That's just a whole new level of pathetic."

Malys didn't appear all that bothered by the insult. "If I'm honest," she said in a cheery voice that made Vinye uneasy, "I don't really mind the new look. You could say I'm proud of it—like how Nords always boast about their war wounds and battle scars—or like you and your arm, even," she added, pointing to the Breton's scarred hand.

Cosette spent an uncomfortably long time mulling this over in her head before she finally shrugged. "Uf … fine," she said. She didn't sound too convinced by Malys' words, but neither did she apparently care enough to notice the two elves breathe a mutual sigh of relief.

"All right," Vinye said, before anyone could get further distracted—making sure to keep out of earshot of Hulda the bartender. "We should bring each other up to snuff now that we all know we're alive and well." _Mostly_ , she mentally amended, casting a sideways glance at Malys.

"Malys and I have already caught up with one another. I recovered the hammer Sunder in a ruin called Raldbthar, a long way to the northeast from here. Yes, _that_ Sunder," she said, noting Cosette's brief look of recognition. "What's more, Malys tells me she recovered Wraithguard from deep under the Velothi Mountains—and that Keening has apparently been in the possession of the Arch-Mage himself for some time. Bit of a tale, so I'm told. So, as it stands, we have unofficially recovered all of Kagrenac's tools. I say unofficially because … well, I'll get to that later.

"Furthermore, we have a lead on another possible dwarven artifact. I can't say I completely trust the veracity of the source, so I'll be looking into this in greater detail once we're back in Winterhold. All I was given was one word: Volendrung." She waved the piece of parchment Rolega had inscribed with that word. "And Malys, you'll be glad to know that Cosette was able to recover the Spellbreaker at great risk of life and limb—"

Cosette muttered something that sounded roughly like, "If you only knew, you damnable little—"

Vinye ignored her. "Lastly, Malys and I each recovered a carved bluish crystal during our expeditions. I did some reading, and it would appear this crystal has a name: Aetherium. It was used to make some very powerful artifacts, supposedly, and I think there might be a chance some of them might have survived. There might be some ruins worth looking into as well that could offer—"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Cosette interrupted. "This bluish crystal—Aetherium, did you call it? Was it cut in a … half-circle shape, by any chance?"

Vinye felt the sensation of a bucketful of ice pouring into her stomach. " … Yes," she said uneasily. "Why?"

And to her shock and horror, the Breton casually reached into her satchel and pulled out yet another glowing blue crystal, almost identical to the ones carried by herself and Malys.

Before she even knew she was doing it, Vinye was reaching over the table and shoving the Aetherium shard back into Cosette's bag. "What are you doing?!" she hissed. "Put it back—before anyone sees—!"

Cosette hastily obeyed. "What's gotten into you?"

"Whatever this Aetherium is, it's dangerous," Vinye said warningly. "Very dangerous, and very powerful—so much so that the Dwemer nearly destroyed themselves because they wanted it so badly."

"Well, what are we waiting for, then?" Cosette asked. "Let's find a courier or three, and get all these artifacts delivered to Solyn on the double. You said it yourself, Vinye—this stuff is dangerous. And Solyn wants to make sure no one runs afoul of their relics any more, right?"

She caught the look on Vinye's face, and her hopeful expression faltered. " … Right?"

Vinye sighed. "Which is why I've decided we're heading back to Winterhold."

Cosette stared blankly at her. " _What_."

"No couriers," Vinye said sharply. "No deliveries—not even a sliver of metal is to be delivered to Solyn." She looked at Malys—who merely appeared slightly bewildered—to Cosette, who looked absolutely flabbergasted. "I've learned a lot these past few days," the Altmer explained to them, "and I'm not all that comfortable with explaining the details where we are now.

"We'll be leaving town at the break of dawn," Vinye said, "so I suggest you get yourselves straightened out. We make for the College on foot from here—no carriages. I promise you—I'll explain everything on the way."

Malys and Cosette looked as if they wanted to do everything but agree—but in the end, they had no other option but to do so.

* * *

_Into the Pale_

_Several hours later_

The ground was slowly changing from hues of browns and greens to grays and whites, and Whiterun was slowly shrinking in the distance behind them. Only when they passed a small, overgrown sign—informing the mages that they had just left Whiterun Hold—did Vinye finally break the news.

"Solyn is lying to us," she said. "He's got his own agenda, and somehow I don't think it involves sealing away powerful relics for all eternity."

Malys' malformed face—mostly hidden by her black hood—contorted further still in shock and confusion. Cosette, meanwhile, was so surprised by this news that she forgot about her sour mood completely, if only for a moment.

"What? What makes you say that?" she cried.

Vinye pulled out the letter from Urag, and continued reciting the letter where Malys had left off the other night:

 

> _—Secondly, the matter of this wizard called Solyn: As I said previously, Master Neloth excels at divination, and can successfully trace the past five generations of any given Dunmer, regardless of whether or not they are in physical contact, or even alive. Given our potential for long life, this can span at least a thousand years' worth of Dunmer._
> 
> _Urag, not only is there no record of Savos Aren ever bearing any children, but there is no evidence that anyone with the name Solyn ever existed within the last thousand years. Neloth claims he has even spoken with the spirit of Divayth Fyr himself, who lived to see the disappearance of the Dwemer in the First Era, and even that most vaunted sorcerer has never heard of such a name._
> 
> _Irrespective of Neloth's penchant for boasting, Urag, this is a very grave situation the College has become involved with. I advise you to speak to Arch-Mage Grimnir immediately on the matter. Ask him—implore him, if need be—to cancel whatever deal you have made with this Solyn. I am almost certain he is not who he appears to be._
> 
> _As for the mages tasked with this burden, I cannot presume myself to have authority over them, but I pray to Azura that they will find it in themselves to do the right thing._
> 
> _Drevis Neloren_

Vinye pocketed the letter grimly. Malys and Cosette traded uneasy looks with one another.

"So there you have it," Vinye said. "Solyn is not the son of Savos Aren. Until we get some better answers than that, I am not setting foot anywhere _near_ Rkund again—and I'm not letting any of these artifacts out of my sight until then. Because it isn't just Solyn I'm worried about—I have reason to believe that there's other people looking for Dwemer artifacts as well. If we aren't careful, they could come for us—and they will kill us if it means they find what they're looking for."

Malys looked worried. "Maybe you haven't seen exactly what these artifacts are?" she said to Vinye, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "You and I each have one of the most powerful tools ever created by the dwarves. Cosette has a shield that dates back to the First Era—maybe even older—and has the favor of a sodding Daedric Prince! We are a prime target for half of Tamriel—and they will stop at nothing to get what they think is rightfully theirs. They will kill us if we have to!"

"I know that," said Vinye stubbornly. "Which is exactly why we're _walking_ to Winterhold instead of taking a carriage. There are carriage drivers all over Skyrim, drivers that probably carry their own fair share of adventurers and sellswords as well. Who's to stop them from mouthing off to each other? If they somehow found out about us, we'd be at risk of putting the College in danger."

Malys said nothing, but the resigned expression on her face suggested she wasn't about to argue with Vinye. Cosette, however, wasn't about to give up so easily. "Have you always been so paranoid?" she said with a raised eyebrow. "You keep acting like someone's going to jump out from behind every other tree we walk by."

Vinye shot a look at her. "If I wasn't paranoid, I'd be _dead_ by now," she said bluntly. "Maybe you ought to try living with an axe over your head for a change. See how long it takes before you look up and wonder when it's going to fall."

Cosette grumbled under her breath, but said nothing.

"She has a point, Vinye," Malys said calmly. "We're sitting ducks on foot. We can get to Winterhold much quicker by carriage." She pointed a thumb at Cosette. "If the driver knows too much, Cozy can just kill him and be done with it, can't she?"

Cosette tried to act offended, but Vinye noticed her face brighten for just that one instant. "Now that doesn't sound like the Malys I know," she said in a falsely sweet voice.

Malys said nothing. Vinye couldn't blame her at all for holding her tongue; Cosette was volatile enough as it was. If she were to find out Malys was a vampire … Vinye repressed a shudder. That was a mess she didn't want to think about at all. It would be best to break that particular news gently—assuming, of course, that the time ever came.

Unfortunately, fate had other ideas in store for them.

Some time later, after they'd found the route to Winterhold, the mages noticed a lone figure walking towards them. Snow was beginning to fall, and the glare of the sunlight, made it hard for Vinye to focus her eyes. But Malys—presumably because of her vampiric nature—could see the figure just fine, as she immediately stiffened. The Dunmer abruptly raised an arm, signaling for the mages to stop.

"Malys, what—"

"Both of you stay back." Malys' voice was unusually tense, and her mouth was the only part of her body that moved. "Whatever happens from here on out, you will not get in the way. If the worst should happen to me, then take what you can, and don't you dare look back."

"If the worst should—?" Vinye was about to say—and then she saw the figure in better detail. She knew who he was; the Altmer remembered that shade of golden-brown on the figure's robe like it was yesterday, and she especially remembered the scintillating blade that hung from its scabbard—a white-hot needle that could pierce a vampire's cold flesh with impunity. And she most definitely recognized the man wearing them both.

 _Auri-El, give me strength_ , she thought with a gulp.

It was Lucius Anglinius.


	11. X

X

_Hall of the Vigilant_

_Two days ago_

The mid-morning light saw Lucius trudging through the snowy foothills of the Pale, his sightless eyes narrowed in pursuit of his goal: a small, unassuming wooden shack nestled in the mountain.

The Hall of the Vigilant was the headquarters of the Vigil of Stendarr, who were tasked by the God of Mercy and Justice to eliminate the influence of the daedra and the undead across Tamriel. A noble goal, Lucius thought—though it was a shame that they had not taken well to what had at the time been a mere fascination with Meridia, who while possessing a hatred of the undead that even the Vigil did not possess, was also a Daedra—otherwise he might never have left their ranks.

But left he had, and he was grateful that he had left on fairly good terms with Carcette—especially today, for he had a very … personal matter to talk with her about.

He had returned to Meridia's shrine overlooking Haafingar immediately after that unqualified debacle at Rkund. Then, for three days and three nights, he had prayed there in solitude. He sought the council of the Lady of Infinite Energies, and neither ate nor drank while he searched for an answer to the burning question in his mind.

What had he done wrong?

Two Vigilants stood guard near the doorway to the Hall, their characteristic tan-and-blue robes wrapped over their suits of steel plate. They snapped to attention when Lucius approached them, and crossed their steel maces in an X, blocking his way in.

 _New recruits_ , Lucius huffed—though he could not see their faces with his eyes alone, the sound of their weapons drawing had been enough. "I would speak with Carcette," he said loudly and clearly. "Tell her that Lucius is here."

After a few seconds of skeptical silence, Lucius heard the creak of armored boots on wood as one of the Vigilants went inside. He reemerged some time later, with similar—but smaller—footsteps in his wake.

"Vigilant Lucius," said an even-toned voice—with just the faintest hint of an edge to it. Lucius imagined an even fainter smile flickering about the woman's face.

He smiled back. "That was a long time ago, Keeper Carcette. The same destination—just a different journey."

He felt a thin but supple hand, calloused from years of wielding that polished ebony mace of hers, wrap around his gnarled fingers. "You should have told me you were coming—I would have set up a room for you."

"It's been a long journey," Lucius agreed. "And any other day, I'd be grateful that you'd go to the trouble. But I'm sure you know I wouldn't come for a social call. You always showed good judgment when I was a part of the Vigil; I could use a dose of that judgment right about now."

Carcette guided him to one of the wooden benches that took up the majority of the Hall's interior, and Lucius sat down. "Thank you," he said graciously.

He heard a creak as Carcette sat beside him. "Now," she said, "what is it you came all this way to ask me?"

Lucius took a long draft of water from his flask to wet his throat before he told Carcette about his business in Winterhold, his dialogue with the wizards of Winterhold, and his encounter with the Dunmer he had suspected to be a vampire—with special emphasis on how Meridia and had judged her to not be one of the Volkihar.

Carcette was silent for a long while when Lucius finally finished his anecdote. "Why did you not tell us about this before?" she finally asked. "The Vigil has operatives all throughout Skyrim and even beyond. Why, we even have an outpost in the Rift, presumably near this Rkund. Did it not occur to you that we could easily have intercepted this alleged vampire and dealt with it accordingly?"

As a matter of fact, it had not—and Lucius felt his head bowing slightly in his foolishness. "The Arch-Mage of Winterhold had tasked me personally to track her down," he explained. "I was not obligated to, but—"

"But why—?" Carcette interrupted, before Lucius felt her hand squeeze his slightly, as if an idea had just come to her. "Or was that the only reason you thought it wise to go after her yourself?"

Lucius said nothing. That was enough for Carcette.

She sighed. "Understand, Lucius, I did not hold it against you when you left us. There were many of us who did not see the same appeal to Meridia that you saw—but I did. Do you know why I asked you to leave the Vigil?"

Lucius did indeed remember. "I let my feelings get ahead of me … cloud my duty to Stendarr."

"Exactly," Carcette said. Lucius heard her sucking in air through her teeth, as if dreading to say anything more to him.

And then she asked, "Lucius … how is your daughter?"

Lucius' fist tightened automatically, and he felt Carcette withdraw her hand from his at the unexpected action. But he did not think more on it; his sightless eyes were suddenly hot with tears, and his free hand was beginning to shake in anger—anger at the monsters that had snatched her from his house in Bruma … and anger at himself, for doing the things he'd done since then, and the lengths he'd gone to, all in the hope of seeing his daughter alive and well.

"Thirty years," he said, half to himself. "It's been thirty years since I started my search. Cyrodiil, Skyrim—even Morrowind. Nothing—but I know she's still out there, Carcette. If I have to turn over every stone in Tamriel—"

"—it would not do you any good," Carcette pleaded softly. "Lucius, this vendetta of yours has wrecked you. It took your sight, it's taking your health, and it could damn well take your life! Just admit that she's—"

"Never!" Lucius growled, slamming his palm on the bench. "I am her father! If anything had happened to her, I would know by now. Don't _ever_ tell me otherwise!"

When Carcette gripped his hand again a few moments later, it was softer this time, and Lucius felt himself relax. "Sorry," he said, calming his voice to a more manageable level. "I shouldn't have lashed out like that at you."

"The fault is mine," Carcette said gently. "I should have realized there might still be some … old ghosts, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase. I am sorry for your misfortune, Lucius, as I was when you first joined us … but my point still stands. It is good to serve the gods and carry out their wishes—but not at the expense of one's well-being."

Lucius grunted. "Someone said that to me just last week," he said, remembering the words of one of the wizards of the College. "Perhaps they were right about that, hmm?"

Carcette stroked his gnarled hand. "It doesn't have to be tomorrow, Lucius. It may not even happen with a simple 'Welcome home.' But I'm sure you and your daughter will be reunited one day. Put your trust in your gods, and you will see her again."

 _If only it was that easy_ , Lucius thought. Trust in Stendarr was not the same thing as trust in Meridia.

_Trust in Meridia …_

Lucius suddenly sat bolt upright as inspiration suddenly hit him. "That's it!" _How did this not occur to me before?!_

"Excuse me?" Carcette sounded genuinely confused.

But Lucius did not hear her. "Stendarr save you, Carcette, you're a genius!" he cried.

He embraced the still-bemused Keeper, and then rushed on his way out, his elation now giving way to his sense of duty. Now he knew what he'd done wrong, and he hoped he still had time enough to correct his mistake.

Lucius was unaware that Keeper Carcette was racing after him halfheartedly, still calling at him even as he sprinted away from the Hall of the Vigilant.

He was even less aware that that was the last time he would see Carcette alive.

* * *

And now, as he saw the three mages approaching him on the outskirts of the Pale, and recognized them with only a fleeting thought, Lucius Anglinius was only aware of one thing. He relaxed his milky white eyes, allowing Meridia to lend him her sight; the light of his Lady was such that even Lucius' blindness presented no hindrance—such was the connection between the Daedra and her priest.

He saw the Dunmer, Malys Aryon, exchanging words with the Altmer and the Breton next to her. They were of merely passing interest to him; they were two of the mages he'd remembered seeing in that Dwarven ruin overlooking Riften. The two mages backed away slightly, and looked on as the dark elf continued walking towards him—but still Lucius stood his ground. He felt the air growing colder and colder, and a voice in the back of his head told him it had nothing to do with the wind blowing through the valley of the Pale.

Finally, the Dunmer stopped in the road, barely five feet away from Lucius. He did not need to see her to know this; he could hear the breath of the elf before him, and the air was so cold that were he a lesser man, it would hurt merely to breathe.

There was silence for one whole minute while the two looked each other in the eye. Then Lucius finally sighed, and spoke.

"I've been looking for you, Malys Aryon," he said. "I came to offer my apology."

He heard nothing from the Dunmer—no indication of surprise or skepticism. Lucius took that as a good sign, and continued, "I have been … _overzealous_ in my actions of late. As a priest of Meridia, I am compelled to obey the wishes of my Lady, and drive out all manner of corruption from Tamriel. However, I have learned that my actions do not necessarily coincide with the wishes of other worldly entities. In my haste to fulfill the word of Meridia, I failed to listen to the words of your Arch-Mage … and also to myself." He bowed his head. "I endangered the life of an innocent victim of circumstance—and for that, I again offer my humble apologies."

Only when the last of Lucius' words had died on the wind did Malys finally speak. "You behaved like an arrogant youngling at Rkund, Lucius Anglinius," she said evenly, without any apparent trace of ill will. "You were headstrong, impulsive. But do you know what else you were?"

He felt Malys lean in close to him. The air around her was colder than ever.

"You were _right_."

It only took an instant for Meridia's priest to understand. His hand flew instinctively to Dawnbreaker, but he did not unsheathe it— _not yet_ , said the voice in his mind. While it might well be the place, Meridia was telling him that this was not the right time to act.

 _Patience, champion_. Her voice rang like a cathedral bell in his mind. _One way or another, this abomination will be cleansed in due time._

Lucius swallowed, and gradually relaxed—letting go of his sudden fear. "How is this so?" he asked—daring not to betray his uneasiness. He already knew the answer to his question—Carcette had told him that much.

Since their conversation, Lucius knew he'd been dwelling on his daughter's abduction for longer than he'd needed to—perhaps even thirty years too long. It pained him to admit it then, and it pained him to admit it now, but these thoughts had clouded his judgment—and Meridia's judgment by extension. And in that one moment of self-doubt, Dawnbreaker had failed him.

Now that this elf had confessed to being a vampire, this was especially true. In fact, Lucius had a suspicion that if he'd possessed a clearer head at the time, Malys might well have fallen at Rkund.

"The Malys Aryon you encountered at Rkund was … incomplete," the Dunmer explained. "I was damaged goods—my mind and memories were destroyed, split in two. I forgot so many things—fleeing Vvardenfell in the Red Year, picking up the pieces in Windhelm … even the vampires that made me what I am today."

Lucius frowned. Vampires—more than one? There was something odd about that.

"I know what you're thinking," Malys went on. "Why didn't your _little magic sword_ kill me when we last met?"

Lucius bristled at the dismissive tone she used in reference to a Daedric artifact, but refrained from showing his displeasure. Besides, even though he would rather die than admit it to this vampire, Lucius was keen to know himself. While the creations of the Daedra were fickle things, to be sure—and Dawnbreaker, Meridia forgive him, was no exception—Lucius had been asking himself that question ever since he'd first met this vampire, and even his visit to Carcette had not driven it from his mind entirely.

"Someone once told me there are forces in this world we will never truly understand," Malys said. "Our hearts, our minds, and everything that goes on inside them—to name just a few. That sword is no ordinary blade—it's … _alive_ , isn't it? Somehow, it knows what I am; I can feel the heat it's been giving off ever since we started talking. I'd wager it's hotter than dragon-fire by now."

Lucius was only then aware of an uncomfortable sensation on his left hip, where Dawnbreaker hung from its scabbard. Occasionally, he would also hear the hiss of errant snowflakes on the ebony blade as they bubbled and melted on the superhot surface. He knew she was right—Dawnbreaker could sense the presence of even the tiniest gasp of undead breath, from the lowliest of the draugr to the highest of vampires.

And yet …

"But it didn't know what I was at Rkund, did it?" Malys continued. "My mind was so damaged that that blade couldn't sense my undead nature. And because you were so insistent that I _was_ a vampire, Dawnbreaker became confused—was I a vampire, or wasn't I? And Meridia wouldn't consign an innocent soul to a fate no _living_ being had a right to suffer."

Lucius grit his teeth, but he knew Malys was right. He had encountered vampires of every bloodline and walk of life—the Whet-Fangs of Black Marsh, the Nine Lines of the Iliac Bay, and even members of the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order, who were notoriously difficult to detect—and Dawnbreaker had dealt with them all accordingly. Lucius had slain them, purging their taint from Tamriel and sending their souls to Meridia to be punished.

All this only made the truth clearer to him: this vampire, Malys Aryon, was unlike any undead he had ever seen, both as a Vigilant and as Meridia's champion. And Lucius—while he would never let that stand—had a unique opportunity to find out why. Was she simply an accident—some malicious jest of Clavicus Vile? Or was this yet another of Molag Bal's abhorrent machinations—the beginning of a completely new strain of vampire?

"You still haven't answered my question," he said warily. "How did you become a vampire? Only a week has passed since we last met—yet the Malys I see before me is far from any fledgling of the undead."

Malys laughed coldly. "Are you telling me Dawnbreaker can't do that, either?"

Lucius heard the smirk in her words, and growled under his breath. The question was irrelevant; Meridia did not distinguish between one vampire and another. In her eyes, they were all the same. At any rate, Lucius' days with the Vigil had given him much knowledge on the matter, and his duty as a priest-cum-vampire-hunter had only augmented those skills. Such was his knowledge now that Lucius had developed a scrye to discern the bloodline of a single vampire, and plan its destruction accordingly.

He murmured an incantation under his breath, and that scrye now bloomed in his left hand. Malys' body was instantly suffused in colors invisible to all eyes but his own. This was the "progenitor test", merely a preliminary examination. Lucius suspected that only Lamae Beolfag, the Nede who became the progenitor of all vampires through Molag Bal himself, would have glowed in such colors if she were still alive today—hence, the name.

Over time, as Lucius continued his studies, analyzing the physical and magickal capabilities of the vampire before him, he made his scans progressively more narrow. With each passing scrye, a bloodline was cast aside if its traits did not match up—and another, more probable bloodline took its place.

Before long, only two colors of light were left—the vivid bluish-white that signified the Volkihar and a dark, murky brown; it took Lucius some time to identify that as the Quarra, one of the three bloodlines of Morrowind, whose numbers had dropped so significantly during the Red Year that rumors suggested they were all but extinct. But as Lucius concentrated his scrye to its most accurate extent, he saw something odd: the colors were actually _mixing_ with one another, forming something different altogether.

That was _not_ supposed to happen.

_Unless … No._

But he knew there could be no other explanation.

"A hybrid vampire," Lucius breathed, as he released the scrye. Now it all made sense; the two bloodlines inside Malys had meshed together to such an extent that they were almost indistinguishable. Extremely dominant ones, too—the Volkihar were powerful in every respect, but the bodies of the Quarra were physically stronger than the other vampire clans of Morrowind, perhaps more so than even the Volkihar themselves. Vampirism strains were not mutually compatible in the same body—if one was stronger than the other, then the weaker bloodline would be smothered, forced out. But two bloodlines as strong as these … Lucius could not believe he was thinking this, but he almost felt _pity_ for this vampire. A battle between Quarra blood and Volkihar blood was a struggle he wasn't sure he wanted to be caught between, even less so in his own body.

_How had this vampire survived such hell?!_

"By the skin of my teeth," Malys replied, when Lucius put the question to her. "I had to sleep for two hundred years to fight the effects as much as I could—and even then I wasn't unscathed. If I hadn't slept for so long, there's no doubt I'd have lost more than just my mind. But I'm better now—my memories have been restored, my mind is whole once again, and I finally know why I am what I am."

"But why would they do such a thing?" Lucius wanted to know. "A vampire would have no reason to knowingly convert another vampire! Why would they make you what you already were?"

Malys scoffed. "What difference does it make? The Ashlander with the Quarra strain bit me first—the Volkihar never came until I'd settled in Windhelm. So if the idea ever occurred to you, then I'm sorry to disappoint. I'm not the result of some tenuous alliance, nor am I some mad experiment gone horribly wrong. All that happened was the Volkihar vampire made an amateur mistake—and Malys Aryon paid the price."

Truthfully, Lucius hadn't thought about the idea of a vampire alliance—though in hindsight, the prospect of such an event would constitute a severe threat to Tamriel—perhaps even beyond. But the Volkihar did not make mistakes—not in his experience. They wouldn't have attacked Malys without a very good reason.

But that was neither here nor there—that much he could agree with. Lucius had found out what he wanted to know, and now he could prepare accordingly—after he had decided what to do about this hybrid vampire. He didn't want to kill her—not yet. But neither could she remain undead.

 _Trust in Meridia_ , his own words echoed in Carcette's voice.

"The way I see it," Lucius finally said, "you have two choices right now. You can surrender, and come with me. Between Skyrim and Morrowind lies a valley; a few … old acquaintances of mine live within."

"What kind of _acquaintances_?" Malys sounded uneasy.

"Vampire hunters, much like myself," Lucius said—they had _that_ in common, that much he knew, and that was all he needed. "You have my word that they will not kill you," he assured her, but his smile widened all the same. "If we're as alike as I suspect, though, then I don't doubt they'd be eager to see what _makes you tick_."

Malys growled, an inhuman sound—feral, even. "Or I could just do the same to you," she hissed. "I think you'd make a much better meal than a nest of Falmer!"

Lucius ignored the threat—he'd expected nothing less from such a violent creature. " _Or_ ," he spoke up, "perhaps a more _peaceful_ alternative is in order."

He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a dark violet crystal the size of his hand. It wobbled slightly in his palm as he showed it to Malys—as if something small, invisible—and very, very angry—was inside, throwing itself against its metaphysical prison in a futile attempt to escape. He tightened his grip on the object.

"This is a black soul gem," Lucius explained. "Inside is all that remains of the necromancer Malkoran, who corrupted Meridia's shrine with his creations. I purified her temple, slew Malkoran at Mount Kilkreath, and trapped his soul inside this gem." His lips curled in a smirk again. "Poetic justice is a wonderful thing sometimes."

Malys did not sound impressed. "And you're showing me this because … ?"

Lucius cleared his throat. "There is a man in Morthal, far to the west—a Redguard, formerly of your College. Go to him, and present him with this gem. He may be willing to cure your vampirism."

Malys said nothing.

"The two of us have nothing in common," Lucius said. "We're as different as night and day. But that doesn't mean we are beyond reason with each other. I hold no ill will for you, Malys Aryon—only for what you have become."

The seconds stretched into minutes before Lucius felt his hand lighten; Malys had taken the black soul gem from his hands. He felt his heart rise as well, as if the gem had weighed on his soul just as it had on his palm. Trapping a person's soul—even if it belonged to a necromancer—was one of the hardest things he'd done. He had not been asked to do so, but his hatred of Malkoran had been such that he'd believed even Meridia's punishment had not been enough—or barring that, that an eternity of being imprisoned inside a soul gem would make him somewhat remorseful. All things considered, it was good, to see this soul gem finally being used for something good.

And then Lucius felt his stomach dissolve as he heard a crunching noise, like glass. A faint, tiny screaming could be heard on the wind. Immediately Lucius knew the soul gem had been destroyed; as he rounded upon Malys, he further noticed that the vampire had actually _crushed_ it in her hand. He heard tiny chunks of dark crystal tinkling as they fell to the road, and if he strained his ears, he could hear Malkoran's tortured soul gave one last wail of pain as it disappeared forever.

Lucius stared at Malys as though she'd gone mad. "Why?" he could only manage to say.

"'The two of us have nothing in common,'" Malys echoed. "'We're as different as night and day.' But you're wrong, Lucius. It may be that you—and everyone like you—despise me, because you also despise my kind. You hate the vampire." She drew closer to Lucius, and the priest could feel her freezing breath on his face. "But we do have _something_ in common. You and I are at the forefront of the vampire's way of life. You _write_ about the vampire, you _experiment_ on the vampire. As for myself, however … I have chosen to _embrace_ the vampire."

_What—?!_

"I told you I paid a price for becoming what I am," Malys said icily. "I never said I didn't regret paying it. You have no idea how _good_ this power makes me feel, Lucius—you can't even imagine. I like what I am—and I won't have it stolen from me by the likes of you."

She laughed. "But I appreciate your offer all the same. Soul gems aren't as filling for me as fresh blood—but this Malkoran certainly came close. After leeching _his_ soul from that gem, I don't think I'll need to feed for the rest of the week." She paused for a moment. "Of course, if you're willing to prove me wrong … "

Again Lucius' hand flew to his blade, preparing for battle—but again, Meridia's voice stayed him a while longer.

 _This is not the time or the place, champion_ , the Daedra Lord declared. _She is a threat to this world, it is true—and her taint will be cleansed in good time. But the thread of her un-life does not end this day; she has at least one more part to play before she faces her end. To change her fate at this crossing would be unwise._

Lucius knew he could not contradict his Lady, but her words still made him uneasy. Very rarely had Meridia ever commanded him to stay his hand—least of all for a vampire with such powerful and deadly potential as this one.

 _Trust in Meridia_ , Carcette's voice spoke again.

 _Very well_ , he thought. But this did not mean he would shirk in his responsibilities. To be honest, if he was to destroy this vampire in the future—and he hoped dearly he would be the one to do it—Lucius had a lot of ground to make up in that regard. He would need to prepare.

And so he released his grip on Dawnbreaker, and resumed his journey to a destination he did not know. He had long since stopped worrying about the wheres and the whys of his profession. Meridia would guide his steps, as she had done for years—and that was enough for her faithful priest.

As he drew level with Malys, he stopped, and spoke softly to her. "I will spare your life this one time, vampire," he said. "But know that as long as you walk Tamriel in this form, you are a danger to her people—and I will be preparing every waking moment of my life for facing you at last."

Lucius made as if to walk away, but a thought occurred to him, and he stopped. "And keep your claws off my daughter," he said warningly. He did not wait for a reply, or any reaction from Malys at all; he hitched up his robe, and set off down the road.

He did not look back.

* * *

Mistress Malys did not take Her eyes off lucius until he had disappeared over the ridge; She saw vinye and cosette out of the corner of Her eye, likewise staying where they were, even though the danger had long since passed.

Once the last trace of his golden-brown robe had shrunk to nothingness, the two mages finally joined Her.

"What was all that about?" cosette asked.

Malys fought the urge to laugh; the breton had heard nothing. she was still in the dark about Her true nature, and as much as She wanted to find out how cosette would react to this news, She thought it might be more entertaining for her to discover the truth for herself. As for vinye … Malys knew She could count on the elf's silence. But She also knew vinye did not like surprises, and suspected the altmer would rat her out to cosette if it suited her best interests.

"It was nothing," Mistress Malys lied with a faint little smile. "It's all water under the bridge now. We won't need to worry about Meridia or her priests anymore."

All the same, though, as they resumed their journey back to Winterhold, Malys couldn't help but think about lucius' so-called "associates." Whoever they were, they sounded like an organization best left alone … for now.

As for lucius' daughter … Mistress Malys could not remember ever meeting any woman from Cyrodiil, not even with the fullness of her memories restored to Her. So why in Oblivion would lucius tell her to stay away from her? Was he simply being a protective father—or was she herself a vampire hunter as well?

"Come on, Malys!" vinye called out to her. she and cosette were already a house-length ahead of her, and the Dunmer hurried to catch up. All thoughts of lucius and his daughter were forgotten—it was time to go home.

She did not look back.

* * *

_Winterhold_

_The next day_

After resting at the secluded Nightgate Inn, the three mages had resumed their return trek to the College at the break of dawn. They walked in relative silence, and very little troubled them on the way. That did not stop them from feeling on edge, though; Vinye had no doubt that Malys was worse off than herself and Cosette in that regard.

Thankfully, the tensest moment in their journey constituted a few sidelong glances from the Stormcloak garrison in Fort Kastav. They were too far away from it to see their faces or hear them talking, so Vinye took that as a good sign, and motioned the others to move on.

They reached the footbridge to the College as the sun was approaching its zenith; Vinye was grateful that no dragons were around to spoil the unusually good weather. Idly, she wondered if the Arch-Mage had something to do with it—Vinye had seen the power of Grimnir's Dragonborn magic for himself; no doubt his Voice could dispel a storm just as easily as it could create one.

As they entered the Courtyard of the College, Vinye noticed an unusually large number of people standing in the area. She recognized most of the staff, and a few of the scholars that frequented the Arcaneum as well. But most of them she didn't even recognize—were there that many students here? Perhaps some of them were only part-time, or attended only when it suited them. J'zargo had said the College wasn't as structured as other schools of magic, and Vinye herself had only just enrolled two weeks ago—but still, to see so many of them was a little unnerving.

J'zargo and Tolfdir chose that moment to step forward. Both of them were flanking Arch-Mage Grimnir—and in spite of the air of authority they carried, all three of them looked deeply disturbed about something.

Nowhere was this more evident than J'zargo—the Khajiit's narrowed eyes contrasted sharply with his normally boisterous demeanor. "We've been waiting for you," he said perfunctorily, his mustache barely moving as he spoke.

"Good morning to you, too," Cosette said sarcastically. "I hope you didn't miss us _too_ much."

"We're very glad to see you all are safe," Grimnir said from beneath his iron mask. "Urag told us where you were this past week—I will assume your being _here_ means you found what you were looking for?"

Vinye nodded, though she was still wary; if Urag had told Grimnir everything, then surely he must know about—

"We're not in trouble, are we?" Malys asked. "I know you said Dwemer research was banned, but you gave us your permission, didn't you? If—"

Vinye had to hand it to Grimnir—only the Dragonborn had the courage to stare a powerful vampire into silence.

"That depends on your definition of 'we' and 'trouble,'" Grimnir said. "Tolfdir, if you would."

The Master Wizard raised his hand, which was glowing a pale shade of orange. A second later, Vinye, Cosette, and Malys felt the contents of their packs straining at the seams. One second after that, the sackcloth burst under the pressure, and the three mages watched in awe and helplessness as potions, ingredients, jewelry and treasure—and all the Dwarven artifacts they'd found over the course of this week—floated through the air towards Tolfdir.

Malys yelped in protest as Wraithguard was wrenched off her arms by the invisible force. "Hey!"

The old Nord telekinetically sifted through the mages' belongings for a few seconds before levitating Sunder, Wraithguard, the three shards of Aetherium, and what Vinye assumed was Spellbreaker to his feet. Everything else was set on the stone walkway in neat little piles.

"I believe that's everything, Arch-Mage," he declared, seemingly satisfied with his work. "I'll take these down to the Midden." He piled the artifacts onto Spellbreaker like it was nothing more than a glorified serving platter.

"What is going on here?" Cosette burst out. "We were going to hand them over to you, anyway! Why—?!" Vinye elbowed her in the ribs; hard enough that the Breton would at least hear Grimnir out as to what he was doing.

"She has a point," Vinye said before Cosette could protest any further. "Did something happen while we were away? What's with all these people? And why did you feel the need to strong-arm us into giving up something we worked ourselves to the bone in order to find?" She already suspected Grimnir had a good reason—in fact, Vinye suspected she already knew what that reason might be—but Dragonborn or no Dragonborn, she'd be damned if she'd let him get away without an answer.

At length, the Arch-Mage relaxed his posture somewhat. "I suggest you all come with me," he said. "After all, a great deal of this has happened because of _your_ efforts."

Vinye did not like the way that rusted mask was looking at _her_.

Before she could say anything further, Grimnir turned on his heel, and made for the Hall of Attainment. J'zargo and Tolfdir followed in his wake, and Vinye, Cosette, and Malys hurried behind them after they'd collected the remainder of their belongings.

* * *

Grimnir never paused in his step, using the same telekinetic spell as Tolfdir to push open the heavy doors with a loud bang. He passed the glowing fountain in the center of the hall, heading for the staircase—but not for the stairs themselves, Vinye saw. Instead, there was a trapdoor under the stairs, large enough for a fairly thin person to squeeze through. The six mages wedged themselves inside—the twin swords strapped across Cosette's back gave her some difficulty—and proceeded down a ladder leading to a damp, badly lit hallway.

"This is the Midden," Grimnir told them. "The lowest levels of the College in more ways than one—it's a dumping ground for forbidden experiments and exceptionally dangerous magic. Not all those experiments were successful—so I suggest you stay alert."

He murmured a few words under his breath; Vinye thought she saw a faint red glow from beneath his hood, but if it had ever existed, it was gone as quickly as it had come. Grimnir then motioned them to move ahead, casting a candlelight spell with a snap of his fingers, covering the stone halls in bright white light.

Vinye wished he hadn't done that—while she was confident in Grimnir's knowledge of this place, she'd felt better off not seeing all the disturbing decorations in the Midden. Skulls were nailed to the walls, framed by outstretched arms and hands that creaked in the draft, and covered in symbols she did not recognize. Entire skeletons—both animal and human—were strewn about in several chambers in circles, warped and contorted in impossible positions. They, too, were covered in blasphemous runes; Vinye swore blind that some of them had even been carved into their bones, slicing into the marrow as if it was mere flesh. She gave an involuntary shudder.

Finally, Grimnir stopped in the largest chamber yet. The walls were lined with large bulging sacks—at least a dozen of them—and Vinye took from the half dozen imposing-looking men in gleaming steel armor that whatever was inside these sacks was either very valuable, or very dangerous. She was leaning towards the latter; though it might be a trick of Grimnir's candlelight, it almost looked like the contents of the sacks were _glowing_ slightly as well.

"What's in those sacks?" she asked.

"Solyn's payment for Keening, as per our deal," replied Grimnir. "As you can see, it is … considerable."

Vinye raised her eyebrows. _That … is a_ lot _of gold_.

Malys face lit up eagerly, and she made as if to run to one of the sacks. Grimnir, however, had apparently already anticipated her. "There's no need to count it all out, Miss Malys," he said, raising his voice only slightly. "Besides, with this new information coming to light, I'd rather be safe than sorry."

Vinye nodded to herself. _I knew it_. "Then Urag must have told you about the letter from Drevis?"

"He did," said Grimnir. "I've recalled Drevis from Solstheim as well; he should be here within two days' time. Until he can confirm for himself that the contents of these bags are genuine, or if they're not part of some larger trap—this gold isn't changing any hands at all. It stays in the Midden under armed guard." He indicated the half-dozen armored men inside the chamber. "And the same goes for your Dwarven artifacts as well."

Vinye saw Tolfdir shift a few bags aside with his telekinesis, tucking the fruits of the mages' labors in an unobtrusive spot, then shifting the bags aside where they wouldn't be noticed.

"What about all those people out there?" Cosette inquired. "Are they new students?"

"They are," J'zargo said. "The graveness of matters aside, this one envies you three for what you have helped to do. For too long the influence and prestige of this College has been crumbling like the cliff on which it stands. But word is spreading of our deal with the one who calls himself Solyn. Many come to us, seeking riches and power." He huffed under his breath. "Too many rivals for Khajiit. J'zargo must be stronger, more learned in the arcane arts. Less competition that way, less men who would seek money over magic—but better rivalries, better students."

 _Competition_. Vinye stiffened as she recalled the words of the thief Rolega. "There was something else I think you ought to know, Arch-Mage," she told Grimnir. "I question whether the source is sound, but I've heard that Solyn might not be the only one in Skyrim who's searching for Dwemer artifacts."

"I already know about the College of Whispers inside Avanchnzel," said Grimnir.

"This is different, sir," Vinye insisted. "I'm not talking about a legitimate institution. There are private collectors out there who are just as interested in these artifacts as Solyn is. And somehow I don't think they'll have any compunction about taking these artifacts by force—not to mention all the money Solyn paid us for Keening."

The iron mask tilted slightly to one side. "I see," Grimnir said entirely too calmly.

J'zargo growled. "This one did tell you. We were right to keep these artifacts to ourselves," he said to Grimnir.

"I'm not so sure, J'zargo," mused the Arch-Mage. "Word travels fast in Skyrim; I don't doubt that any scholar worth his salt knows about what's been going on here. They're going to notice the influx of prospective students, which will lead to a great deal of questions in and of itself."

"And that would them to hear about both our coffers and our artifacts," Vinye agreed. "If they're greedy enough—and if they're confident enough—they might try to take them by force."

The Khajiit waved a paw in disdain. "Collectors and mercenaries, feh! J'zargo has more magic in his little claw than such men. Let them come—we will send them away with empty hands!"

"I've met a few mercenaries in my time, J'zargo," Grimnir said evenly. "We'd do well to be prepared for the worst." He turned to Tolfdir. "I'm going to write to Calcelmo. I may need some more of those guards of his to keep watch down here."

The iron mask then rounded on the mages. "As for you three, I commend you for your efforts in recovering these artifacts—perhaps if the situation was different, I would see to it that you were compensated for your troubles as well." He sighed. "Until then, however, under no circumstances are we to carry out any communication with this Solyn. There will be no more couriers, and there will be no more deliveries sent to the ruins of Rkund."

"What about our search?" asked Malys. "We had several more leads we thought might be worth looking into. One of them had to do with Volendrung?"

Grimnir said nothing. Vinye would have given anything to know what was going on under that iron mask.

"They've already proved themselves capable mages, if I say so myself," Tolfdir asserted. "Even you never went inside a Dwemer ruin on your own, Arch-Mage."

Vinye found it very difficult to keep her composure; Tolfdir's claim had suddenly made her so giddy she felt like she could fly. She had ventured inside Raldbthar alone, while the Dragonborn himself had not? Was Tolfdir suggesting that Vinye was more powerful than even a living Nordic legend?

"There are older and fouler things in the world than the creations of the dwarves, Master Tolfdir," J'zargo said. "And Grimnir has faced _them_ alone."

Grimnir laughed. "J'zargo, I'm surprised at you. You're not afraid they're going to challenge you one of these days, are you?"

A hearty little laugh was shared by all—even J'zargo grudgingly joined in after a while. "Khajiit _always_ welcomes a challenge," he boasted.

Grimnir cleared his throat. "Well, I see no reason to keep you three away from your present assignment," he told the novices. "I would suggest you speak with Urag about Volendrung—I suspect he knows more about it than I do. But after you've finished following these leads of yours, I am ordering you to return to the College posthaste with whatever artifacts you have found."

Vinye nodded.

"Hold on. What about this Calcelmo you mentioned?" Cosette cut in. "I know the name—I spent some time in Markarth when I was younger. But it sounds like these guards are on his payroll. How do you know they won't turn on us?"

Grimnir said nothing for a few seconds. "Unlike Solyn, Calcelmo is a _recognized_ scholar of the Dwemer," he said coolly. "His choice of guards may be less than _ideal_ , but he is trustworthy. He also owes me a favor; I assisted him with the excavation of Nchuand-Zel under Markarth several years ago, and he's never quite been able to return the favor until now."

That seemed to placate Cosette, who merely shrugged.

"Now, if that will be all," Grimnir said, "I'd like a few words with Vinye, and then you can return to your duties."

Cosette and Malys frowned. "Don't worry," the Altmer reassured them—doing her best not to betray her own nervousness. "I'll meet you in the Arcaneum when I'm done."

The two novices reluctantly nodded, and made their way out of the Midden; Tolfdir and J'zargo followed in their stead, leaving Vinye alone with the Dragonborn and the men that guarded the Midden.

Once the mages had departed, Grimnir turned to Vinye—he'd switched out his iron mask for his orange-brown one. "You need to be very careful from here on out, Vinye," he said solemnly.

"Tell me something I don't already know," Vinye sighed. "Um … sir," she hastily added.

"I'm not talking about these unconfirmed threats of other dwarven collectors," Grimnir said dismissively. "I don't know what you've gotten yourself involved with, but I can see that glow in your eyes. Whatever you've set off to be a part of, it's bigger than you could possibly imagine. And if you aren't careful, it _will_ destroy you."

The elf swallowed. "Are you talking about those Aetherium shards?" she asked.

The mask tilted slightly. "No—but it can certainly apply in this case as well," said the Arch-Mage. "I won't claim to be a mind-reader, Vinye. But I know what it's like to seek power, knowledge, what have you. When you have the soul of a dragon, as I do, that quest can turn into an obsession. And when I look into your eyes, I see the same thing happening to you. I see _myself_."

Grimnir slowly clutched his mask and pulled it off his face, and then he pulled down the hood of his robes so that Vinye could properly see the Dragonborn for the first time—and she clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.

The sight was horrendous, and yet she could not stop staring at the ravaged, hairless scalp before her, at the scarred skin pulled tight over so many wounds Vinye soon lost count. One whole side of the Arch-Mage's face had been ravaged by mage-fire, and cracked blisters wide as a septim covered the empty socket where his right eye should have been. The rest of his face was no different; the entire left cheek was sunken and shredded in a hundred different places, dangling limply below his remaining electric-blue eye. To top off the grotesque display, Grimnir's left ear had a sizable chunk missing, while his right ear was nothing more than a blackened stump; Vinye dreaded to think of the strength of the lightning magic that had done _that_.

She suppressed a shudder as Grimnir leaned in close to her. "You are not Dragonborn," he said; without the mask, his voice sounded much more raspy, like he'd just aged thirty years. "And while you are an accomplished mage in your own right, that makes it even more dangerous for you. I know you've talked to Septimus, and I also know the master he serves. But most important of all—I know the kind of deals that that particular Daedra has made with mortals, and I therefore urge you to think very carefully about the choices you make in your life. If you don't … well, at best, I'd wager you'd end up like me." He pointed to his scarred head.

Vinye gulped. "And … at worst?"

Grimnir's voice was cold enough to make being around Malys feel like paradise. "Then one of us is going to die."

Before, Vinye's joyous mood had merely ground to a screeching halt after seeing what was under Grimnir's mask. But now her euphoria had been blasted into cinders, and she felt an icy terror seep into her veins like thousands of needles. Had the Arch-Mage just made an open death threat against her—against one of his own students?!

It surprised her how quickly she recovered from the shock. "Y-yes, well," she stammered, speaking a bit more flippantly than she thought was possible, given the circumstances, "I'll make sure to keep my wits about me, the next time I see any slimy tentacles where there shouldn't be." She attempted a weak chuckle.

Grimnir grunted as he replaced his gray mask, allowing Vinye a moment of relief as the awful wounds were hidden once more. "Just as long as we're clear on that end," he said. "Now, about this … Aetherium, did you call it?" His hand glowed orange, and the three shards floated towards him as though they were guided on invisible strings.

Grimnir studied them for a few seconds, the Aetherium hovering telekinetically in front of his mask. Every so often, he mumbled to himself, too quietly for Vinye to hear. After a few minutes, the Arch-Mage snapped his fingers, and the three crystalline fragments converged on each other in midair.

"Did you play with puzzles as a child, Vinye?" Grimnir asked her.

"No, sir," she replied. "My mother and father were a little more … _practical_ in their approach to my education." She grit her teeth, and forced all thoughts of the butcher she'd once called her father out of her head.

Grimnir sounded pensive. "There are three pieces, all of them roughly shaped like half a circle," he explained. "Already that should tell you these pieces have more in common than what they're made up of. But look at the extrusions on some of these pieces. Two of them are symmetrical, while the other is not. So … "

Grimnir's fingers twitched a little, and the pieces of Aetherium drew closer still. The two that Grimnir had deemed to be symmetrical rested one on top of the other, forming a perfectly circular edge. But that wasn't all—the two extrusions fit together perfectly.

And as Vinye watched open-mouthed in silent awe, Grimnir manipulated the third shard to the right of the formation; a bit of shuffling around, and all three pieces fit together seamlessly—except for a rough section to the left of the shard he'd just affixed—and that one imperfection told Vinye everything.

 _There's only one more piece left to find_.

"As I said," Grimnir replied after a while. "It's a puzzle … a very perplexing one as well … "

Vinye had no reply.

* * *

The Altmer had been reluctant to reclaim the assembled shards of Aetherium after her conversation with Grimnir. But in spite of—or perhaps because of—the knowledge that the three of them fit so snugly together raised a great deal more questions in her mind than Grimnir had answered.

What _was_ Aetherium? Vinye pondered as she ascended the stairs to the Arcaneum. Where had the dwarves found something so resilient and powerful—and what, if anything, was powerful enough to carve it so precisely?

And that was to say nothing of the Arch-Mage's sudden interest in Vinye. Had the Dragonborn run afoul of the same nightmarish entity she'd seen under the sea? Was that where he'd received those horrifying wounds?

The questions continued to vex her even as she halfheartedly flipped through the pages of book after book with Vinye and Cosette. Grimnir's refusal to back Solyn in his research had taken most of the wind out of everyone's sails, but there was still the matter of Volendrung to look forward to.

After a little more than an hour's worth of poring through the stacks, Cosette finally came across something promising. She waved over to Vinye and Malys, who immediately rushed to join her.

"I think I found it," explained the Breton, pointing to the dog-eared pages of the tome in her hand. "' _The Hammer of Might,_ _Volendrung_ _is said to have been created by the Dwemer of the now abandoned clan of Rourken, … it is best known for the paralyzing and strength-leeching effects it has when cast at an enemy. Like the Dwarves who created it, Volendrung is prone to disappearing suddenly, resurfacing sometimes in days, sometimes in eons._ '"

Malys sighed. "Well, at least we know _what_ it is. But where can we find something like that?"

Vinye stole a look at the librarian, and recalled Grimnir's words to her. "Urag might know," she said. "Let's ask him." They headed over to the Orc's desk.

The Orc peered up from his book, and glared at the approaching mages with a bored look on his face. "What do you want?" he grunted.

"We wanted to ask about an artifact called Volendrung," Vinye said. "The Arch-Mage said you could help us out."

The Orc's bushy white eyebrows furrowed. "Volendrung, eh?" he asked, and then he chuckled. "Well, Grimnir sure got that right. Who better to go to than an Orc to ask about the Daedric artifact of Malacath?"

Cosette blanched. "Daedric artifact?" she repeated. Her round face deflated a little, like bread that had risen just a bit too quickly.

"Aye," Urag answered. "Malacath represents the spurned and the ostracized. His followers were once elves that served the god Trinimac, but when Boethiah transformed Trinimac into Malacath, those elves were transformed with him. They became the Orsimer—the 'pariah folk.'

"As for Volendrung"—Urag leaned back in his seat, which creaked noisily under him—"legend has it the head of the Rourken clan threw Volendrung into the sun, and he told the clan they would settle wherever it landed. The dwarves followed the hammer to the isle of Stros M'Kai, and made their home on the island—and the land around them came to be called Volenfell: where the hammer fell."

"Hammerfell," said Malys half to herself—recognizing the connection between the legend of Volendrung and the largely arid region south and west of Skyrim.

"Where does Malacath fit in all this?" Vinye asked.

The Orc shrugged. "No one's really sure—especially since Malacath is traditionally opposed to the Dwemer. There used to be a popular theory that because the Rourken exiled themselves from their own people, the hammer came to symbolize Malacath for that same reason—and therefore, whoever found Volendrung would find his favor. But some Orcs have it in their heads that Malacath himself battled the Rourken chief and defeated him at some point in time, and took Volendrung for his own."

"Where is Volendrung now?"

Urag glared at Cosette with an annoyed look. "I'd be up all night telling you why that doesn't even make any sense," he said bluntly. "Daedric artifacts don't last long on Mundus. Eventually, they fade away into Oblivion and stay there—until for whatever reason, one of the Daedra decides to send it back and repeat the process. Frankly, your best option would be to go to Malacath himself—and _good luck_ ," he laughed, showing his tusks in a sneer.

Cosette groaned. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," she said through her teeth.

"There's that—or you could go to one of their strongholds in the mountains," said Urag. "There's four in Skyrim that I know of, and they're all a ways from here. There's one to the west of Riften that's supposed to have an actual shrine to Malacath inside. I'd start there if I were—"

Urag stopped rambling for a few seconds, and then let off a short bark of a laugh. "Ha! But you're not blood-kin, are you?"

"Blood-what, now?" asked a confused Malys.

Vinye knew what that meant. "Orcs don't like outsiders much," she told the Dunmer. "They like to keep to themselves. Blood-Kin is their catchall term for the few outsiders they deem trustworthy enough to let inside. But usually you have to _really_ help them out in order to … "

Vinye's voice trailed off into nothingness—she'd just had an idea. "Urag," she asked, "how well connected are you to the strongholds?"

The Orc's glowering look faded a little. "Not very much," he said. "But I don't think that matters—not for what I'm thinking you might have in mind, anyway. I'm assuming you got that _other_ errand of yours taken care off?"

Vinye nodded, but said nothing further.

Urag mumbled to himself for a minute, apparently thinking something over in his head. After a few moments, he reached in his robe, and pulled out a particularly jagged-looking dagger with a greenish-gray blade. "Hold out your hand," he instructed.

As Urag grasped her open palm in one hand and the dagger in the other, Vinye realized with a gasp what the Orc was about to do, and immediately braced herself for the worst. But to her slight surprise, there was only a slight twinge of pain—the extreme tip of the blade was sharpened such that it passed through her flesh with impunity, and it did not bleed nearly as much as the Altmer thought it would.

"Let the scars heal naturally," Urag told her. "If you use a healing spell, you'll seal it up too fast, and no one'll be be able to see the scar when they get a good look at you." He wiped up the paltry drops of blood with a dirty cloth. "Congratulations," he said, with only a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "I've just named you Blood-Kin to the Orcs."

For just a moment, Vinye thought that tusked mouth of Urag's might have twisted into a smile. But just when she thought she'd seen it, it was gone, and the librarian was back to his old, abrasive self.

"Now pick up the mess you made back there before I change my mind," he grunted, waving them off dismissively and returning to the tome in his hands.

The three mages slowly looked over their shoulders at the mountain of books they'd piled on their table over the past hour. Cosette muttered something incomprehensible under her breath, and stole a dark glance at Vinye.

"Don't look at me," the Altmer said defensively as she began organizing part of the pile into its own neat stack. "It's not my fault I got rewarded for taking some initiative, is it?"

Cosette huffed. "I'm just wondering why he didn't mark us all as Blood-Kin. Urag's bound to know we've all been a big help to the College. Honestly, I've half a mind to call nepotism on this."

Vinye said nothing. It was possible that Cosette might have a point; she didn't see any logical reason why Urag hadn't marked the Breton as he had Vinye. The same was true for Malys—but that she wasn't marked either was a stroke of luck; Vinye had no idea if vampires bled any differently from humans—or even if they bled at all.

"So what kind of initiative _did_ you take?" Malys piped up, as she finished her own stack and began sorting through the titles. "You said you have to help Orcs out in order to be Blood-Kin. So what did you do for Urag?"

"He asked me to make a delivery before I set out to Raldbthar and found Sunder," Vinye said. She decided not to tell them about the specifics of the delivery, never mind what she'd seen inside that iceberg; if she was honest, the Altmer doubted they'd believe her anyway. The knowledge of an Elder Scroll and a Daedric Prince out of the blue—they'd think she was insane!

"Must've been some kind of delivery," Cosette muttered, but she said nothing further.

The three mages continued on in silence. As they packed and reshelved book after book, Vinye allowed her mind to dwell on the multitude of thoughts rushing chaotically through her head.

There were three pieces of Aetherium to their credit, out of a possible four … _The Aetherium Wars_ had mentioned the ruins of Arkngthamz, said to be located in the southern Reach … Was it possible that—

"Cosette?" Vinye asked, breaking the silence. "How well do you know the Reach?"

Cosette smirked. "Like the back of my hand," she boasted, flexing her scarred arm to drive the point home. "Why?"

It was Vinye's turn to break into a rare smile. "Because I might know where to find one more of those crystal shards … "

* * *

_Somewhere in the Rift_

The three bandits never knew what happened to them.

One moment, the dwarven ruins where they had made their camp had been relatively peaceful, the silence of the night interrupted only by the hoot of an owl, or the chirp of a nearby cricket. The next, the world had exploded in a thousand shades of brown, and the cool night air had turned into a thick, choking miasma around them.

Only when the last of the marauders had gasped out his last breath did Solyn finally lower his gloved hand. The churning clouds that engulfed the ruins dissipated swiftly, and scattered with a half-hearted wave as the bandit toppled dead at his feet, the iron mace clanging on the stone.

The wizard took his time walking through the ruins, analyzing every last bit of metal and stone that he could see. There were none of the Dwemer's iconic towers here, but the stairs and smooth worn floors had still survived the centuries. Solyn pushed aside a crude bone chime that the ruin's former occupants had rigged from an archway to warn them of intruders—but not, he reflected, of wizards like him.

The first time he had learned of this place, it had been purely by accident. Solyn had been browsing the bits of books in Rkund that were still legible enough to read, and one of them had mentioned this place as one of particular importance to the dwarves. Exactly why it was important had been lost to the ages—but as Solyn approached a dais that overlooked the rest of the otherwise unremarkable ruin, he immediately knew from the object perched in the exact center of the platform that his journey had not been in vain.

Solyn rested his hands on the thin metal bands of the sculpture, and ran his finger through the perfectly round groove in the center of the plinth. Something was clearly designed to fit inside, he noted. But what could it be—and more to the point, what purpose did it serve?

He laid his hands on the pedestal, and concentrated on the imagery of the ruins that he'd taken, allowing them to occupy the foremost place in his mind. " _Meht hekem, quam iya … tayem-hekem, seht cess payem_ _,"_ he chanted under his breath. _"_ _Meht ayem, roht koht … bedt-tayem-hekem, ayem, lyr-hefhed-tayem!_ _"_

The circular platform beneath him glowed violet for a few seconds as the rune took shape around its circumference, and then faded into the stone. Solyn gave it only a few moments of his attention; he knew it would be perfect—it had to be. But his only concern now was the mystery of this ruin. Too much of it was eroded and decayed to be of any further use now—why, only that one book in all of Rkund had given any insight as to its very _existence!_

For now, Solyn knew that information—along with what he had gained tonight—would have to suffice. He would make his way back to Rkund, and research this site to the extent of the forgotten city's archives. Now that he had marked the ruins for himself, returning here would be easy.

 _"_ _Roht ekem, cess ayem, do-lyr_ _,"_ he whispered. _"_ _Roht-koht yoodt, neht-doht meht._ _"_

A column of swirling purple fire consumed him, and Solyn had vanished as though he'd never set foot in this place.

* * *

Eastmarch

Mzulft was already far behind them now, and the volcanic steppes were giving way to the forests of the Rift. Now that they were becoming more and more familiar with the roads of eastern Skyrim, the novices' journey was taking much less time than they'd anticipated. It was only the three of them, but even without two senior staff of the College accompanying them, they were making surprisingly good headway, considering it had only been a day and a half after they had left Winterhold.

"We've made a name for ourselves," Cosette said boldly after passing the mountain where those bandits had once ambushed them, and not seeing an outlaw in sight. "Not in _that_ way," she added, after Vinye gave her a look. "I mean bandits and thugs and those people. I'm just saying they're scared of us, that's all."

"News travels fast," Vinye remarked. "Someone's bound to listen in and find out why they're so scared—and they could find out who we are."

"Well, we've been lucky so far," Malys agreed. "I actually ran into a mercenary not too far from here last week, and he didn't seem to care all that much about the Dwemer. I was able to convince him to travel alongside and help find Wraithguard for me, but I don't know if I'll be that lucky again."

Cosette grinned. "Some standards he had, with your face the way it is."

Malys growled, but the effort was only half-hearted, and Cosette saw the Dunmer's lips curl up in a thin smile—the only part of Malys she could see, owing to the overlarge black robes covering her face and armor.

"I don't need to present myself like a bitch in heat to gain the favor of a _mercenary_ ," Malys said in a falsely sweet voice. "He only agreed because I was carrying some dwarven weapons with me from a storeroom near Mzulft. I sold them and gave him the money." She sighed. "He was worth every septim, too—if it wasn't for him, I might not be alive. But he was the one who died instead."

Cosette was prepared to make another joke at Malys' expense, but the tone of the dark elf's voice at this last bit of information suggested that perhaps this mercenary—whoever he was—really had lost his life inside whatever ruin Malys had ventured into.

"How did he die?" she asked. "Did he step on a pressure plate or something, trigger a trap?"

Malys shook her head. "Worse," she answered. "It was—"

And then she stopped. She held up her palm over her eyes, appearing to scan the road ahead.

"Someone's coming," she said, her voice low. "Looks like … four people. Three of them look armed."

Vinye tensed. "We'd better get off the road," she whispered. "It could be bandits—or worse." She pointed to the left; a sizable bush was growing near the shoulder. "Hide behind there!"

They hurried off the road—not running outright; that would surely attract their attention. Once they'd hid behind the bush, the three mages peered through the leaves as the figures came into greater detail.

Two of them strode up the road at a fair clip, one behind the other, while the other two men brought up the rear, and walked side by side. All of these three were armored head to toe; the one in front wore Nordic-looking armor with many swirls and animal motifs carved into it. As for the others, one was clad in steel plate; his companion, a very battered-looking set of iron that nonetheless looked as though it could withstand the jaws of a dragon.

It was the fourth figure among them, however, that garnered their attention. He was a mage in burgundy robes: a Dunmer, with dark red eyes and bushy black hair. The way he carried himself told Cosette he was confident to a fault—and someone of importance as well, if those armored men with him were any indication.

She held her breath as the four men drew level with the bush they were hiding under, and slowly reached for her Forsworn blades.

And then the blade of a massive claymore sunk into the bush, barely inches from her face. She yelped, and scurried back several feet.

"Out," rumbled the owner of the huge sword—the man in steel plate; another Breton, judging by the accent. "On your feet. All of you."

Cosette's heart was thundering as she stood up from the bush, weapons drawn. Vinye and Malys followed suit, their fingers sizzling with sparks and freezing air. She remembered what the Altmer had said about competition as they had left Whiterun. Was it possible that these people were looking for Dwemer relics, too?

"You're not very good bandits, are you?" said the Dunmer. "I'll give you credit for that timing on your ambush—you must have the eyes of a Khajiit to have seen us from so far away. But you picked your hiding place too well. That bush is just the right size to hide a surprise attack—one that my guards have learned to recognize in our days."

He nodded to the armored Breton. "Stand down, Dorian," he said. "I don't think we've anything to fear."

Cosette sheathed her swords across her back as the guards did the same, and she laughed to stave off her sudden feeling of discomfort. In all the time she'd lived in the Reach, Cosette had learned a lot about the wilderness of those steppes, and she had an uncanny ability to sense danger long before she could see it as a result of this knowledge. Right now, the hairs of her neck were tingling, and she felt her heartbeat quicken just a little.

There was an air about this Dunmer that she did not like one bit.

"We're mages of Winterhold," she grinned, hiding her anxiety. "Unlike you, we don't need lackeys to deal with so-called bandits."

The man called Dorian growled, but the Dunmer's bushy eyebrows rose a few millimeters at the name of the town. "Winterhold?" he said pensively. "So the rumors are true, then? Someone really is searching for powerful relics."

Cosette winced as Vinye aimed a kick at her shin, out of sight of the wizard and his retinue.

"I suppose you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" she heard the Altmer ask accusingly. "We've already had our fair share of would-be scholars, and we're not in the mood to listen to more lies from thieves."

The Dunmer stepped back. "Oh, dear—you misunderstand. I study the Dwemer, it is true, but I have never concerned myself with their artifacts at all. Merely that wondrous metal that is so often found in their ruins."

He stepped forward, and extended his hand. "Taron Dreth—the foremost authority on Dwemer metallurgy in Tamriel, at your service."

None of the mages moved to return the gesture, including Cosette, and Taron's bravado faltered only a little. But Vinye had dove into her satchel, and was now leafing through a book she'd just pulled from there. "Taron Dreth," she repeated under her breath. " _The_ Taron Dreth? Who wrote _The Aetherium Wars_?"

Taron's face brightened and darkened at the same time. "The very same," he affirmed.

"So, then," Vinye said, "you can tell us a few things about this mineral called Aetherium, can't you?"

Taron was silent for a few moments. "If you're wondering where to find some, it is very difficult to obtain; there are no surviving examples of such a mineral anywhere—at least, none known to me. The ruins of Arkngthamz—assuming you've read the book—would definitely be the place to start looking, to be sure. However, I've word from very reliable sources that lately, destructive earthquakes have marred the region where its ruins are said to lie. If that's the case, then I highly doubt they'd be accessible anymore."

Cosette laughed. "And what if those earthquakes uncovered the ruins instead—would you be willing to take that chance?" she asked. "Are you just going to give up the ghost so easily?"

Malys huffed. "I know what being in an earthquake feels like," she muttered.

Taron, for his part, was looking at Cosette slightly askew, as though her words had had an impact on her. His bodyguards were also exchanging glances with one another.

Finally, Taron nodded. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check," he said. "But it's a long way to the Reach. We were on our way to Falkreath take on supplies before we found you. Perhaps if you could meet us there at your earliest convenience, we could explore the ruins as one large group. Does that sound like a proposition?"

Cosette's eyes flicked from Vinye to Malys and back again. Both of them wore looks on their faces that suggested they were less than happy this offer. Frankly, Cosette couldn't blame them—one never knew what was still waiting inside Dwarven ruins. She thought of the unspeakable things she had done in Bthardamz, and did her best to suppress the tears.

And then there were the Forsworn. Cosette wasn't worried for herself—she knew better than anyone here, and perhaps in all of Skyrim, how the Forsworn worked. But the others … Cosette shook her head. Taron had his bodyguards—and hopefully some power to back up that enormous pretention of his. As for Vinye and Malys—Cosette stifled a chuckle. She could let the two mages taste the harsh reality of the Reach for themselves.

And if her true identity was discovered in the process, Cosette would deal with the situation accordingly.

She cleared her throat, and turned to Taron. "We'll think about it," she said evenly. "If you see us in Falkreath, you'll know our decision."

And with that, she walked past Taron and his retinue, continuing south to Shor's Stone. Vinye and Malys ran to catch up with her.

It was a long while before the Altmer spoke up. "What do you think?" asked Vinye.

"About Taron?" Cosette pursed her lips in thought. "I really don't know. But when you've spent enough time in Markarth, you can get this sixth sense about you—you can't really explain what it is, but you know it's going to happen all the same."

"And what's this sixth sense telling you now?"

The Breton's face was grim. "That if we're not careful, he could be bad news."

Malys was deep in thought. "What should we do, then? If they double-cross us somehow?"

Cosette did not blink. "Then we'll just have to kill them all, won't we?"

She didn't need to tilt her head back to know her casual statement had made them uneasy. _Weaklings_ , she thought. Admittedly, they were good in firefights, but when it came to bare-bones survival, it only boiled down to one lesson—one that Cosette had drilled into her head ever since she'd first become part of the Cullers.

 _Kill … or be killed_.


	12. XI

XI

_West of Riften_

Later on, in the early hours of the evening, that particular maxim was still ringing in Cosette's ears.

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to block out the ringing in her ears that came from the blow to her head she'd suffered just now. This, combined with the shouting coming from Vinye, Malys, and the obstacle currently blocking their way, was giving her a massive headache.

She stumbled back up to her feet and applied some healing magic to her mangled nose. The Breton grimaced in pain as the cartilage reassembled itself; she was a little punch-drunk, but she would live.

" _Agra!_ "

However, she wasn't sure how much longer that would last.

The giant standing between her and the Orc stronghold nestled in the Jerall Mountains was twelve feet tall—almost as large as that centurion she'd fought in Bthardamz—but was considerably more mobile than some antiquated golem. The enormous stone club in his right hand was taller than she was; if she looked, Cosette could see her own blood still leaking from where the crude weapon had just barely grazed her face.

Behind the giant, Vinye and Malys were blasting away at the giant with spell after spell. But giants were notoriously resistant to magic, more so than even Bretons; Vinye's lightning was doing nothing but making him madder, while a dozen of Malys' ice spikes were already embedded in the giant's leathery gray skin.

" _Ayarg KUL!_ " The giant swatted at the missiles with his free hand, like they were nothing more than gnats. He stomped his bare foot down hard, shaking the earth in the immediate area and sending the mages to their knees. The fireball that Cosette had been building up destabilized in her hand, singeing her hair and knocking her further backward. Fortunately, this put her out of the club's reach, and its next swing hit nothing but air.

Cosette knew that trick wouldn't work twice. The giant was already bearing down upon her—she'd had the misfortune to be closer to the giant than either of the two elves—and she was only just now getting to her feet. She charged another fireball, backing away as fast as she could to give her more time.

She had to make this count—it might well be her last.

Suddenly, the giant stumbled to a halt. " _Garag nur!_ " he bellowed, turning away from Cosette, seemingly focused on the stronghold—or more accurately, something behind it.

And then he stumbled again, and this time Cosette saw why—for just the briefest moment, she'd seen the thin black blur of an arrow streak from the watchtower of the stronghold, and catch the giant full in his face with a meaty _thwack!_ She knew enough about archery to know that whatever bow had fired that arrow carried a punch like no other—the arrow sank through the giant's thick skin like it was a soap bubble, and continue on through the skull and the brain all the way to the fletching, and the Breton saw its forked tip emerge from his other end of his dreadlock-covered head.

_By all the old gods …_

" _Gar … kul … ayar …_ " The giant lumbered towards the stronghold, but its footsteps were weaker and much less powerful, and Cosette instinctively knew that single arrow had proved fatal. His club slipped from his dying fingers as he spoke his last words, and he tumbled face-first to the ground with an impact that shook the earth.

The Breton sighed in relief as she clambered to her feet, and saw the two elves heading in her direction. "Are you all right?" Vinye asked her.

Cosette nodded. "I'll live," she said bluntly, giving her healed nose an experimental sniff—everything appeared to have healed right, which was a relief. "That's not something I expected me to be saying, especially after fighting a bloody _giant_."

"What are giants doing out here, anyway?" Vinye wanted to know. "I thought they didn't like being this far south. Don't they usually make their camps in Whiterun Hold?"

"What I'd like to know is how a single arrow can do what three of us can't," Malys said, inspecting the giant's body and lazily plucking off one of the ice spikes embedded in his back.

Cosette dusted herself off, and began walking towards the stronghold. "Let's find out."

The source of the arrow wasn't hard to miss—there was a lone figure still standing in the watchtower, covered head to toe in black spiky armor that, as the mages drew closer, was lain with glowing red filigree. A massive, bladed bow was slung over the figure's shoulder, and twin serrated swords—also glowing faintly red—hung from each hip.

Cosette gaped at the figure in astonishment. _That's Daedric armor!_ Such trinkets were incredibly rare, and equally difficult to forge. There were legends told of the works of the Daedra—how only those few mortals who knew how to weave a Daedra's heart and soul into precious ebony could craft such works of art—and they were considered highly sought after all over Tamriel. A full suit like this—even with some wear and tear—was potentially worth an entire keep!

Suddenly, the armored figure leveled that huge Daedric bow at the mages, and all three of them stopped in their tracks. "Halt, outlanders!" a rough, scratchy voice bellowed; it took a surprised Cosette some time to realize that the Orc under all that armor was actually _female_.

"By the code of Malacath, this stronghold belongs to the Orcs!" the guard continued. "You are not welcome here!"

Vinye stepped forward, and held out the hand Cosette knew to bear the mark Urag had made on her palm. "We have every right to be here!" she cried, matching the Orsimer as best she could in volume—though, Cosette reflected, not nearly in sheer presence. "We have been named Blood-Kin by Urag gro-Shub of Winterhold!"

The pitch-black helm, curving wickedly downward like the beak of a vulture, peered at Vinye's palm to investigate the mark. "I do not know this Urag," the female Orc answered bluntly. "But an Orc's word is as true as his blade." She holstered her bow, and leapt off the watchtower with a grunt and a dull thud, disappearing behind the wooden fortifications.

Before Cosette could wonder where she'd gone, the heavy gate creaked open, revealing the interior of the stronghold—along with the Orc, who—whether by virtue of her armor or her blood—was pushing the gate open all by herself. The Breton fought the urge to gulp—this was definitely somebody she did not want to face in combat.

"I am Borgakh, wife to Ugluk," the guard said curtly. "I bid you welcome to the stronghold of Largashbur, Blood-Kin of the Orcs."

Only then was Cosette able to tear her eyes away from the guard, Borgakh, and see inside an Orc stronghold for the first time in her life. It was very stark and utilitarian, which was not entirely surprising given the warrior nature of the Pariah Folk; several rough wooden huts dotted the wide space to her right, nestled in the sheer cliffs that served as part of Largashbur's wall. To her left was a wide, crescent-shaped construction with one large door in the center.

But what struck Cosette was the lack of any activity within the stronghold. Granted, the hour was late, and so naturally Orcs would have gathered in the longhouse as the evening came. But she had expected to see _some_ signs of Orcs aplenty in this place: training dummies alongside racks that held all manner of weapons, freshly tilled soil, and livestock settling in their pens. Yet there were none to be found—the fields were barren, the animal pens were filthy with long-dried dung and rotted hay; indeed, the only sign of life in Largashbur appeared to be the wisps of smoke rising from the longhouse.

A small totem had been erected in the central area of the stronghold—a simple deer's skull propped up with a stick behind a flat rock and surrounded by pieces of Orcish-looking armor. Cosette guessed this must have been the shrine Urag had been talking about. But even this—the obvious centerpiece of their lifestyle—looked to be in a sad state of repair, although it was still in much better shape than its surroundings.

Vinye looked at the quiet scene uneasily. "Where is everyone?"

Borgakh's bitter voice was noticeable even through her armor. "The giants are strong by nature—and Malacath always favors the strong. But the giants also sense our weakness, and attack this stronghold. Ugluk and I are the only two left in Largashbur. All the others are long dead."

Cosette felt a pang of sympathy, and she saw that Vinye looked similarly stricken. Malys, however, sounded awestruck. "You've been fighting the giants all on your own—for all this time?"

"We have." Despite the somber tone, Cosette could hear a hint of pride in the affirmation.

"But why would the giants want to attack your stronghold in the first place?" Vinye wanted to know.

Borgakh was silent for a long while before she finally spoke. "I was not here to witness what happened to Largashbur," she said. "But my husband will tell you more. He ought to—in a way, much of this was his doing."

At this enigmatic reply, she headed for the longhouse without another word, and bade the mages go inside first.

As Vinye and Malys headed inside, Cosette made to do the same—but was caught completely off guard when the heavy gauntlet of Borgakh suddenly spun her around, pointing one of her Daedric swords right at her gut.

The Breton was incensed. "What's—?!" But she got no further; Borgakh's other sword was a dark blur, and before Cosette knew it, that blade was suddenly millimeters away from her throat, and any retaliation died on her lips.

"Before I met Ugluk," Borgakh growled, "I was the daughter of Larak, who led the stronghold Mor Khazgur in the northern Reach. We were neighbored by a mountain that crawled with the Forsworn, and they would always attack us without warning—but we would always beat them back."

Suddenly, Cosette felt as though her heart had just flooded with icy water. _Oh no. Does she—_

Borgakh's beaked helm leaned in close, and sniffed. "You stink of blood and briar-magic," she hissed.

The Breton swallowed as her worst fear was recognized. _She knows_.

But despite the sudden surge of anxiety, somehow she managed to stand her ground. "Those swords on my back are just hunting trophies," she shot back at Borgakh. That wasn't the _complete_ truth; hunting trophies implied some amount of relish in actually taking them, but to Cosette, they were more than that. They were tools, weapons—but most importantly, they were symbols of her duty to the Reachmen. "You don't know _anything_ about my life, _pig_."

 _That_ , at least, she knew was the complete truth.

Borgakh spent a very long time gauging Cosette's reaction before holstering her own twin swords on her hips. "If you were not Blood-Kin, I would paint Largashbur with your blood without a second thought," she snarled. "Consider yourself lucky—because I never waste second thoughts on filth like you."

The black gauntlets tightened into fists. "I'll be watching you while you're here, _witch_. Now get inside before I change my mind."

Cosette was only too relieved to agree.

* * *

The longhouse was squat, and Vinye had trouble standing upright on account of being taller than most mortal races on Tamriel. Her head was smarting after banging her head on the roof only seconds ago.

It was somewhat disquieting to the Altmer, being in a center of Orsimer society where the Orcs had been all but wiped out. But the power of Largashbur was still evident, and Vinye need not have looked further to see this than the weapons hanging from the walls of the stronghold. All of them were Daedric in make, and were so solid in construction that she doubted anyone but an Orc could hope to heft one in their hand, never mind use it in battle.

In the center of the longhouse stood the largest weapon of all—a massive war hammer, at least six feet long, whose every inch was covered in dark green spikes and bladed ridges. The head of the hammer, which was thicker around than both of Vinye's legs together, shone with a faint red light from somewhere within.

This, Vinye assumed, could only be Volendrung. She grimaced—knowing what this Dwarven relic looked like didn't do them any favors for bringing it back to Winterhold.

Malys seemed to agree with her. "That hammer must weigh a ton," the vampire whispered, both eyebrows raised high as she appraised the ancient weapon. "Even I'd have a hard time lifting that thing."

Borgakh entered the longhouse just then; Cosette followed just behind her, and Vinye was quick to note how ghostly white the Breton's face looked. The girl looked like she'd been scared out of her wits—and not just by the giant.

The Orc removed her helm, revealing a smooth, olive green face and a tribal braid near the base of her skull. "Ugluk!" she called out.

A deep grunting noise—like a giant stretching his muscles—echoed in the longhouse. Vinye heard the sound of armored footfalls from off to her right, and turned just in time to see the door to the chief's bedchamber creak open.

Behind it stood the biggest and broadest Orc she had ever seen. Ugluk was easily seven feet tall—perhaps even closer to eight—and like his mate, he was clad in pristine Daedric armor. Blood-red tattoos covered his bald, greenish-brown head, and were it not for the horns on his head and brow, and the tusks jutting from under his lower lip, Vinye would have mistaken him for one of Mehrunes Dagon's dremora, even from so close up.

The presence of Ugluk was unmistakable; the already tiny Cosette was dwarfed in every way by this Orc, and Vinye saw that even Malys—who had appeared so confident that night in Whiterun after revealing herself as a creature of the night—was sizing him up with an odd expression that was either awed respect … or outright fear.

"That armor's enchanted," Malys said in a whispered aside to Vinye, when the Altmer asked her why. "I've never seen so many runes in one place. And the fact that I can see them at all means they must be _very_ potent. Strength, magic resistance, renewal _and_ revival—he must know the Telvanni _very_ well if he could get his hands on _this_."

Vinye looked back at the gigantic Ugluk, and she suspected that the Telvanni knew Ugluk equally well, if that was the case. This Orc looked every inch the unstoppable juggernaut, and if Malys' vampiric eyesight was telling the truth, then that enchanted armor had been designed to play to his strengths. She gave an involuntary shudder.

"Borgakh." Ugluk's gruff voice sounded as though he ate rocks three times every day. "It is almost nightfall. You should be outside keeping watch."

"They wish to know about our curse," Borgakh answered, indicating the three mages. "And the giants are not so plentiful after sundown—Largashbur may hold its own for a time."

Dark red eyes flickered briefly in their direction, and the huge Orc gave a reluctant sigh in acknowledgement of his wife. "I am no wise woman," Ugluk said. He sat down on a chair, which creaked dangerously under the weight of his armored bulk. "Much of what I know of this curse came from the late shaman of the stronghold.

"I first came to this stronghold four years ago. All of Largashbur was fighting a giant—even the women and some of the older children as well—and like any Orc would, I joined them and helped to slay it. The wise woman, Atub, was grateful to me, and asked me for help in undoing what she called a curse.

"Yamarz was the chief at the time. He was a schemer, one who avoided battle—he did not think like an Orc should, and his character made him weak in Malacath's eyes. When Yamarz neglected the shrine in Giants' Grove, and allowed the giants to run rampant there, Malacath cursed him and all of Largashbur in his rage. Over the course of a few months, Yamarz became a recluse, and shut himself in the longhouse—leaving his tribe to fend for itself.

"But Atub convinced him to set things right, to slay the giants that had defiled Malacath's shrine. However, Yamarz needed a second—someone who would protect him so he could fulfill his duty—and I would be his second. We traveled to the grove, and slew every last giant inside. And that would have been that—except Yamarz turned on me, hoping to claim all the credit for what we had done. But he did not succeed. I slew him in front of Malacath's shrine, and I was given this hammer for my efforts."

He indicated Volendrung with a sweep of his arm, still resting on its mantelpiece as the longhouse's center of attention.

"So that was the end of the curse?" Malys asked.

Ugluk grunted. "I had hoped it was. Malacath installed a new chief in Yamarz' place—another guard, Gularzob. I went on my way with Atub's blessing, and I did not think of Largashbur until three years later. By that time, I had met Borgakh, and asked her to travel with me at her father's consent, and we passed by Largashbur in our travels."

"We knew we'd arrived too late when we saw the giant inside the stronghold's walls," Borgakh added. "The giant was finally slain, but the cost was high. Half of Largashbur lay dead or dying that night, including Atub and Chief Gularzob—and it began again the following morning. Some tried to leave, hoping to find refuge in the other strongholds of Skyrim, but the giants found them first. Over time, more and more Orcs died—until finally, Largashbur became what you see today—a shadow of the old days."

"Hell of a way to become the chief of a stronghold," Cosette commented. "Take it from me, _sir_ "—Vinye bit her lip; the way Cosette emphasized that word sounded everything but respectful—"I know what it's like to get shafted by a Daedra Lord. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what's happened to you."

Vinye did a double take. Was that genuine remorse she was hearing from _Cosette_ , of all people? Or was she trying to save face in front of the Orcs? She kept stealing glances at Borgakh for some reason; the Altmer would never have suspected that such a tough little firebrand could look so _terrified_.

"I am not the chief of Largashbur," Ugluk said, without addressing Cosette's offer of sympathy. "Not yet. But under these circumstances, I would have to challenge Malacath directly. And one curse is enough—I would not have Largashbur suffer another because of my ambition."

"Well, why not go back to Giants' Grove?" Vinye chimed in. "Ask for Malacath's help again? If he gave you Volendrung, then doesn't that make you his champion? Surely that would give you _some_ favor with him. You could end the curse, become chief of this stronghold, _and_ have it restored to its glory days."

Ugluk's red eyes narrowed. "How do you know of Volendrung?" he asked suspiciously.

Vinye's smile vanished as suddenly as a candle being snuffed out, and she cursed herself for her slip of the tongue. But her fear soon subsided—it was only fair she tell the truth. "We're searching for Dwarven relics," she explained, choosing her words carefully. "We were hoping to find Volendrung, and take it back to our College so we could study it for a time." She did not relish having to invent that last part, but it sounded more appealing than telling Ugluk about what little the College knew of their competition.

Ugluk growled. "Mages, hmm?"

He was silent for a long while, and for a while Vinye wondered if she'd said the wrong thing. Her eyes flitted from Ugluk to the array of weaponry around Largashbur. The brutal, serrated edges that they all had in common looked like they could rip through a dragon with ease. In fact, Vinye doubted the Orc even needed those weapons to kill her; that spiked armor looked so solidly built that a single punch from him would likely work just as effectively.

Finally, Ugluk stood up from his seat. "All right. I don't much like this idea, but it's as good a one as I can think of." He turned to Borgakh. "I'm heading to Fallowstone Cave. I'll need to pack heavy."

Borgakh nodded wordlessly, and disappeared down a nearby trapdoor. She returned a minute later with several small sacks in one hand, and only the _second_ biggest hammer that Vinye had seen tonight in the other. This last was slung over her shoulder, and glowed with a fiery red-and-violet color. Vinye could see faintly glowing Daedric runes carved into the handle of the hammer, and cast a questioning glance at Malys, hoping she could translate them.

The vampire frowned as her eyes scanned the weapon. "'Cast by the God-King's hands, and in the God-King's eyes, ye free.'" She shook her head in confusion. "I have no idea what that means."

Ugluk had heard her. "This is not my hammer," he said simply, as he accepted the hammer from Borgakh. "It was made for one purpose, and only one—to kill in the name of Malacath without fear of consequence."

He retrieved Volendrung from its plaque, and, in yet another testament to the Orsimer physique, slung both hammers over his back. "Fallowstone Cave is the only way into Giants' Grove," Ugluk explained. "Before the curse struck Largashbur, it was a rite of passage for those who wished to be chief of the stronghold. Anyone who came out alive gained Malacath's favor, and he would then be free to make his challenge to the old chief."

"Is that what you're going to do?" Cosette asked. "Are you going to challenge Malacath to end your curse?"

"Not exactly." Ugluk strapped the two sacks to the chain over his waist that served as a belt. "Malacath favors the strong. I will prove myself worthy of him by slaying the giants there, but I may need your help."

Vinye blinked, certain she'd misheard the Orc. "What do you need us to do?"

"Make sure I get there in one piece," Ugluk grunted bluntly.

Vinye couldn't help but feel a tiny prickle up her spine. That sounded too good to be true—Ugluk looked like he could take on all the giants in Tamriel and still emerge the victor. Was there something he wasn't telling them?

"What happens if Malacath doesn't listen to you?" she asked. "Are you going to keep on defending Largashbur?"

Ugluk sighed. "No," he said after a very long while. "If he refuses to lift the curse, then Largashbur is lost. Borgakh and I will go to another stronghold, and we will do what we can there."

Vinye considered this. "All right," she said. "We'll get you as far as this shrine. Our price … will be Volendrung."

Borgakh made a harsh noise in her throat. "You go too far!" she growled. "A Daedric artifact is not some simple _bargaining chip_!" She drew her dual swords in a flash. "I would slay you right now for your words!"

Suddenly, Cosette's Forsworn blades had appeared in both her hands as well, and Vinye's own hand flew to her dagger, Kinsbane. The Breton growled as threateningly as she could at Borgakh—which might have been intimidating in any other situation.

But Ugluk was shaking his head and chuckling darkly to himself, earning a strange look from everyone inside. "I'm turning into a pragmatist," he said, as if Vinye's offer was the punch line to some off-color joke. "All I want is to see this stronghold restored again. Whatever happens to me in the process is irrelevant."

He straightened. "All right. I will give you Volendrung—if and _only_ if Malacath should reject me," he added with a thin smile.

Vinye inwardly cursed at this, but she knew that was likely as far as her skills at negotiation would get her. "Deal."

And so, Ugluk turned to Borgakh. Each grasped the other's pauldrons tightly; they did not speak, and Vinye suspected they didn't even need to—this was a couple who had been through so much together, that they no longer needed words to show their love for one another.

"Let's go," Ugluk said brusquely, showing the mages out and following after them.

" _Are you insane?_ " Cosette whispered to Vinye, once they'd left the longhouse. "How are we going to get Volendrung now?! There's no way Malacath won't say no to an Orc like that!"

Vinye couldn't help but agree. Even now, she wasn't sure if she'd made the right decision. But it least it would buy her some time to make a contingency plan.

"Follow me," Ugluk told them impatiently. "We will catch the giants by surprise while the night is still young."

And without further ado, he launched himself eastward with the speed of a berserk dragon—leaving Vinye and the mages slack-jawed behind him before sprinting after him.

* * *

By the time they arrived at Fallowstone Cave some hours later, Vinye was cursing her elfin body with every step. High elves were made to excel in the magickal arts—not in something so rough as cross-country running. A thousand stitches tore through her torso, and her mouth was very dry even after taking her umpteenth drink of water.

Cosette looked much less winded during the journey, though her fatigue was still noticeable—Vinye suspected all the time she'd spent in Cidhna Mine had toughened her up in more ways than her attitude. Malys hadn't appeared very tired at all—although Vinye could see she was making a great show of acting like she was out of breath, she also had a feeling that vampires rarely got tired, if they ever did at all. It probably helped that they'd elected to run at nighttime as well—any other time of day, and Malys would be much worse off than _she_ was.

Meanwhile, even with the massive Volendrung slung over his back—alongside his own heavy hammer as well—Ugluk had barely even broken a sweat; whether it was because of his enchanted armor or his physique, Vinye wasn't sure. Whatever the case, he'd even taken the time to tell the Altmer a bit about himself as they crossed the Rift under the stars, saying the conversation would help to take her mind off the fatigue of the journey.

Not only had it seemed to work—her condition now could well have been much worse—but Vinye had learned a lot along the way, too. Ugluk was the son of a blacksmith in the Imperial Legion, who had served in the Battle of the Red Ring thirty years ago with such distinction that he'd been elevated straight to the rank of Quaestor by Emperor Titus Mede II himself. His father's knowledge of the fire and forge had made the legionnaires' weapons stronger than even the moonstone and malachite crafts of the Thalmor troops. After the commendation, Ugluk's father had retired a hero in Cyrodiil, where he proceeded to instruct his son in the ways of the forge as soon as he could walk.

The Orc had an equally interesting story to tell of his mother, too; _she_ was descended from an enchanter with the Mages' Guild of Orsinium. In fact, Ugluk had claimed, the same Daedric hammer he carried alongside Volendrung was the same one her ancestor had used to slay the famous Orc necromancer Ulliceta gra-Kogg, and had been a family heirloom since. And like his father, Ugluk's mother had similarly taught him her own tools of the trade.

After that, Vinye had put two and two together. "You're telling me you made those weapons in Largashbur _all by yourself_?" she had said incredulously, as they sprinted past a half-collapsed fort not long before passing the north gates of Riften. "Smelted and enchanted it from scratch?"

Ugluk had nodded. "I was a traveling merchant in Hammerfell before I came to Skyrim," he'd explained. "People would come to me for weapons, armor and jewelry, and I would make them. This is my best work yet," he had added with a hint of smugness, indicating his own enchanted Daedric armor.

Even now, as they stood outside the yawning entrance to Fallowstone Cave, Vinye was impressed at Ugluk's talents. Perhaps if Malacath refused his challenge, she thought, Ugluk could come to Winterhold and study there. The chances were if he knew that much about enchanting, he could even be an instructor.

Ugluk stepped first into the cave. "There's giants here, all right," he said. "They mark their territory so people don't get funny ideas." He indicated a crude series of pictograms scored into the rock walls. "There's a good deal of them here, too," he added. "At least three, probably four."

He turned to the mages. "I'll take point, and you lot give me covering fire. You don't bring down a giant on your own—I didn't make this armor just to show it off."

And with that, the group set off into the cave, and they were quickly swallowed by ink-black darkness.

* * *

As they meandered through the fissure, Mistress Malys had to wonder how giants, of all creatures, would be able to squeeze their way into a passage like this. The rock walls were barely a meter wide, and barely twice as tall as She was—a giant would have to be bent double just to make it through.

ugluk turned a corner, and the tunnel suddenly opened up into a massive cavern that could have easily housed the entirety of the College within its rock walls. It even seemed to have its own climate, too; the loud rushing noise of a massive waterfall echoed in Her ears, and at the far end of the cavern were several trees.

She heard an appreciative whistle from cosette. "Don't see that every day," she commented on the scenery.

The bones of dozens of creatures—wolves, bears and even sabercats—littered the area. And as a gleam of soft orange light caught Her eye, Malys saw what must have been the reason for them all: a giant, bigger than the centurions She'd fought in that nameless ruin, was silhouetted in front of an equally enormous campfire. It was clad in furs and bones, and the skull of a troll decorated its waist. She could see a huge club in its hand—and if the firelight wasn't playing tricks on Her vampiric sight, it looked like a broken stalactite.

She grimaced. _If that hits Me, it's going to hurt._

"There's some high ground over there." cosette pointed to a crag overlooking the cavern. "we can get his attention from there."

vinye shook her head. "That's too far away," she said. "my lightning will break up over that distance."

"Tough," said the breton. "i'm still feeling that giant's club on my face. i don't want this one anywhere near the rest of me."

Malys studied the crag, looking from there to the giant and back again. An idea was taking shape in Her mind. "Let Me try," She said, making Her way to the overlook.

She crouched down on one knee, and scanned the area below. The giant was crouched before the immense fire in front of him. Several skeevers were impaled on roasting spits over the flames, and he was dutifully turning one of them. She therefore began charging up an ice spike, before the giant had another chance to move.

Malys manipulated the spike differently than She'd previously done with Her ice magic; a random memory had surfaced in her head, from when She was very young—a trader in the Suran marketplace had been selling strange arrows that twisted and warped along their lengths. The trader had claimed this spiral-style arrow made it fly farther, and demonstrated the craft by shooting one of the arrows from his bow. The arrow flew so far that it disappeared from her sight, and a short journey later saw it lodged on the flagpole in front of the town temple. The guards had been so impressed with that feat of archery that they let the trader off with a mere warning.

As Malys concentrated more ice magic in Her fingers, She siphoned off a little from the crystal that was taking shape in Her hand. Slowly, She rotated her hand, keeping the sliver of ice perfectly still, scoring tiny, curved grooves in the surface. Finally, She concentrated as much magic as she could into the front of the crystal, tapering off the ice spike to a very long, razor-thin point.

 _Let's see how he can take this_ , She thought—and fired.

There was a flash of blue light as the icy spear streaked from her palm. The magickally-created grooves in the construct increased both its speed and its accuracy, and Malys instinctively knew her aim was straight and true. She watched as the modified missile enough pierced through the giant's tough skin and right into his lower back, and gave a silent cheer.

But it had not been enough—although if nothing else, they'd certainly gotten the giant's attention now. The behemoth immediately leapt up from the spitted skeevers and roared in agitation, searching for the source of the annoyance digging into his spine. A second, much closer bellow answered him, and Malys turned round in surprise just in time to see ugluk's armored bulk disappear over the waterfall, Volendrung and all, and drop like a lead weight. There was a heavy splash from below one moment later.

A moment after that, the mages saw a black-and-red form emerge from the water and _launch_ , like an arrow from a bow. ugluk shoulder-checked the giant with a meaty thud that Malys could hear from where She was, and cringed. But the impact cost ugluk a lot of his momentum; the giant had only stumbled, and even now was rearing back to strike the orc with its heavy stone club.

ugluk was ready. he held Volendrung high, and the sturdy handle met the jagged rock with an audible _clang_. But the giant was still not discouraged, and continued whaling away at the orc.

Malys' opening shot had taxed Her greatly—She had neither the time nor the reserves to support ugluk and get him back on the offensive. "Cosette!" She cried.

The breton was already strafing the area around the campfire with one firebolt after another. Several came narrowly close to missing ugluk, but an equal amount also impacted the giant with enough force to distract him from his assault.

That was ugluk's cue. he lunged up with a grunt, and swung Volendrung with a mighty heave, and the Oblivion-forged artifact hit the giant square in the chest. There was a clap of thunder, and Mistress Malys watched in undisguised shock as the giant was propelled away from ugluk with the speed of a rock from Red Mountain's eruption. He flew straight through his campfire, scattering lit logs and half-eaten skeevers everywhere, and smacked into a rock wall with enough speed to spread cracks through the stone.

Yet the giant—incredibly—was still alive. But he was only just; that blow from Volendrung had been very severe indeed—perhaps even mortal. ugluk was not taking chances, though; as the giant stumbled to his feet, the orc reached for his other hammer—the one that had been passed down from his mother—and smashed it right into the giant's face with a roar. Blood pooled from his crushed skull, and the giant toppled to the ground.

Suddenly, the giant began to glow with a bright purple fire that rapidly spread over his body and leapt into the air. The flames then whirled around like a cyclone, and were sucked back into the hammer as quickly as they'd erupted. Malys thought She could hear one final roar in the air, and She trembled in spite of Herself.

 _A soul trap_ , She realized. That hammer was enchanted with a soul trap—and if those flames had acted the way they did, then ugluk must have a gem to contain the giant's essence somewhere on his person. Sure enough, the orc pulled out a bright blue crystal from one of the sacks borgakh had given him, and he touched it to the Daedric hammer. Both objects glowed briefly, then the crystal fragmented in his fingers and fell silently to the ground.

vinye came up behind her; the altmer sounded just as awestruck as She was. "Is that what happened to ulliceta?" she asked, a slight tremor in her voice. "Is that how she was killed?"

"Yes," ugluk said simply. "Her soul was trapped, and used as fuel for the hammer's soul trap, so the stories went. She was given a fitting death for her crimes."

Malys shuddered as She recalled the runes engraved on the hammer. _Cast by the god-king's hands, and in the god-king's eyes, ye free._ Trapping the soul of any fellow man or mer was a capital offense in Tamriel—and ugluk had recalled this ulliceta's fate without any trace of guilt whatsoever. Her thoughts went to the necromancer malkoran, imprisoned in that black soul gem of lucius', and how She had destroyed it, and his soul, without a second thought.

Was ugluk like lucius? She wondered—someone who was willing to kill in a Daedra's name? How many other people had he killed with that hammer? How many souls had he trapped—and how many others in Tamriel had been swayed by the power of the Daedra?

Her eyes flitted towards Volendrung, and She recalled how easily it had treated that giant like a pitiful rag doll. _If it could do that to something so big … what would that hammer do to Me?_

She shivered again as the group continued on.

* * *

Only minutes later, the cave abruptly opened into a snow-covered expanse. They could dimly see mountains all around them in the night sky, and the grove echoed with the scream of the wind. It was incredibly cold.

A grisly sight greeted them as they rounded a corner: dozens of Orc skeletons were littered around a gigantic statue of a figure that could only be Malacath; the sheer size of the sculpture, coupled with the Orc-like appearance of the figure and the enormous claymore he wielded in a killing blow, told Vinye enough about this Daedric Prince.

Slightly less impressive in stature were the three giants between them and Malacath's likeness; they were mere forms of shadow thanks to the massive campfire they were gathered around, but their presence was still unmistakable. The biggest giant of the lot was about a head and a half taller than any giant they'd yet seen. But his bare back—he wore only a crude cowhide loincloth—was turned to the group, and close enough to where Vinye could see the ridges of his spinal column. That gave her an idea.

As a child, she had learned from her lessons in Alinor that the human body was controlled by signals from the brain, like tiny little lightning bolts of influence. If these signals were disrupted, then the body was helpless for a time—even the simple act of walking could prove impossible, never mind lifting a sword or firing a bow. And with the right control over her lightning, Vinye had learned to employ it in her numerous encounters with Thalmor troops.

But a giant was still several times larger than an Altmer, and much more resistant as well—which meant she would need to use just the right amount and strike in just the right place to make her attack, or it would fail.

She studied the spine—she would make her first strike there, but where specifically should … _There_ , she thought, _the second thoracic vertebra. That ought to have the most effect_. She raised her arm, charged a bolt, and fired.

It was a small bolt, and not very damaging, but it was far brighter than any bolt she'd yet produced in her brief time at Winterhold—and if the giant's very loud reaction as it hit his spine was any indication, it was painful to match. His body briefly glowed bright blue, and he moved to attack—only to have his arm jerk about, flinging his club to the far side of the cave, where it flattened a nearby bush. He bellowed in confusion—and his leg fell out from under him, jerking about as though it had a mind of its own.

She could feel three pairs of eyes looking back at her in bewilderment. "That lightning bolt scrambled his nervous system," she explained. "As far as he's concerned, his arms are his legs, and his legs are his arms." She smirked. "How's that for _getting attention?_ "

But her gloating fell upon deaf ears; the others had wasted no time in setting upon the subdued giant. Vinye got over her annoyance at being ignored quickly, however, and a few more disruptive lightning bolts on her part ensured that Ugluk had a clear path again. Down the giant went, and the soul trap on Ugluk's ancestral hammer ensnared yet another victim.

The other two giants charged forward—but Ugluk didn't seem to care. To him, they were merely more enemies to slay in battle—obstacles blocking his audience with Malacath. He ran out to meet them, hammer in hands, shouting battle cries all the while. Volendrung swung once—and one of the giants sailed out of sight with another thunderclap, disappearing over the misty mountaintops within a matter of seconds.

Vinye, Cosette, and Malys were already hard at work on the second giant; they were spaced out evenly, neither of them letting up in their siege upon the behemoth. The giant's primitive brain was too confused by this united assault—he could not figure out which one of the mages to attack first. He growled in agitation—which quickly turned into a gurgle as Ugluk swung his ancestral hammer spike-first into the giant's throat. The soul trap activated before the giant had hit the ground.

The four figures surveyed the scene around them. Thinking of something Ugluk had said earlier that night, Vinye asked, "This chief—Yamarz, was it?—did he die here, too?"

"Yes," said Ugluk, as he walked to the statue of Malacath, unhooking Volendrung from his back. "I burned him with his armor until nothing was left of either. Yamarz was a fool—but he was still an Orc, and a worthy kill. He deserved _some_ measure of honor in spite of all his folly."

"So what now?" Cosette trotted up alongside him. "Now that all the giants are dead, is that the end of it?"

"That was just the easy part," Ugluk grimaced. "Now that I have slain the giants in this place, I will prove myself to Malacath, and ask for the restoration of Largashbur. The petition is not what most _civilized_ people would call 'clean'; therefore, I ask that you stand back."

The mages frowned at this in confusion, but they eventually took several steps backward as they watched Ugluk begin his ritual.

First, the Orc laid the blood-soaked Volendrung at the foot of the statue with the utmost reverence. Then, he reached into more of the sacks Borgakh had given him; from one, he pulled out a foul-smelling mass of off-white mush—troll fat, the mages recognized; it was commonly used in potions that protected against poison. From the other, Ugluk produced a crimson-glowing heart: the fresh heart of a Daedra, Vinye knew. Those were incredibly rare, and were the main reason why Daedric artifacts, both forged and otherwise, were as powerful and prized as they were.

Ugluk laid the fat in front of Volendrung, and carefully nestled the heart inside it. Then, he stepped back, and with a mighty bellow, swung his ancestral hammer downward, straight for the heart. The organ was hit head-on, and its contents splattered all over the fat and the stone beyond, mixing the blandly colored mess with vivid red blood. The ritual done, Ugluk took another step backward, and unleashed a deep, guttural roar that seemed to make the very bones of the earth—and all three of the mages besides—tremble with fear.

" _I am Ugluk of Largashbur, son of Lurtz gro-Lugburz, and chosen of my God-King!_ " thundered the Orc, his voice echoing off the mountains surrounding the shrine. " _I slew the coward Yamarz, and spilled his blood on these very stones! I destroyed the stronghold of Bag Shubthurz, and took the armor of their traitorous leader as an offering to you, great Malacath!_ "

Cosette, Vinye, and Malys stood there, rooted to the ground and deaf as posts by the sheer volume of Ugluk's boasting. If that wasn't a challenge worthy of the gods, the Breton decided, she didn't know what was.

**_"You again?"_ **

If Ugluk ate rocks to develop his gruff voice, thought a thoroughly startled Vinye, then the voice that had just boomed out of nowhere could devour entire _boulders_. Once she got over the rumbling echoes of Malacath's query, though, she was quick to note how the Daedra Lord sounded almost like a particularly grumpy old man who'd been roused out of bed much too early for his liking. The phrase "waking a sleeping giant" came to mind—an ominous portent, thought the Altmer, but all the more appropriate for the occasion.

 ** _"What do you want, Ugluk?"_** Malacath grumbled. **_"Speak up while I'm still in a good mood!"_**

Ugluk took a step forward. "I come to end the curse upon Largashbur!" he shouted. "There are none who remain in your stronghold now. But where they have failed, I have succeeded! I have slain a hundred giants in Largashbur in your name—I have proven myself a worthy warrior in your eyes, great Malacath!"

Vinye's heart pounded as she watched the shouting match unfold. This was it—this was the moment.

Malacath made an unpleasant rumbling noise. **_"Ugluk … you're an_** **idiot** ** _. Did you think that just because Gularzob was killed, that my curse had never been lifted?"_**

Ugluk's face faded a little in his confusion. "What?"

 ** _"I told you that I was willing to give that rabble Yamarz called a tribe a chance to prove themselves!"_** Malacath spoke with the thinly veiled exasperation of a father telling his young son that two and two did not make five. **_"Those giants were meant to test Largashbur to see if they would be worthy again, you simpleton! If there aren't any Orcs left in there—well, then I guess they weren't, were they?"_**

Vinye didn't think it was possible for an Orc to look fearful, but even from this distance, she could see the emotion written all over Ugluk's face. "Then … I have failed?" he asked.

Malacath did not answer him for some time. When he did, his disembodied voice was almost at a reasonable volume, and Vinye heard a touch of what almost sounded like grudging admiration. **_"I watched you kill Yamarz, Ugluk, and weak though he was, I consider that no small task. I watched you as your hands as you shaped orichalcum and ebony in my name. But while an Orc may judge himself by how weak or strong he is, an Orc chief must judge himself by how weak or strong his_** **tribe** ** _is."_**

There was a pause. **_"I'm willing to give you one more chance. If you can prove yourself to me, then I will restore Largashbur to be worthy of my name once again—and_** **you** ** _will be their new chief."_**

Ugluk's tattooed face brightened, and he nearly tripped over himself in his haste to reply. "T-thank you, Malacath," he stammered, clearly not expecting this turn of events. "What do I need to do?"

The Altmer wasn't sure if it was a trick of the firelight, but she could almost swear the eyes of Malacath's statue were staring right at her and the elves.

 ** _"I don't know why you brought mages here, and I don't really care—I_** **hate** ** _mages,"_** Malacath said. **_"Whatever help they've given you, you don't need them anymore. Kill them all, and we'll talk about Largashbur's future."_**

The bottom dropped out from Vinye's stomach. _Did he just say what I think he said?_ She looked at Ugluk; the Orc was staring back at them all, and his face was unreadable. He looked almost pleading—in and of itself, an unthinkable expression for an Orc.

"I would have been content with being with my wife and tending to my forge," Ugluk said evenly, but Vinye heard the piteous tone in his voice. "But I have a chance to make things right now. I can restore Largashbur to what it once was now—and more!"

Cosette looked wounded. "Is that what Yamarz told you?" she growled through gritted teeth, inching her hands towards the swords on her back. "Right before he betrayed you like you just did now?!"

" _Do not speak that name!_ " Ugluk spat, his voice harsher than any of them had ever heard it tonight. They backed away; Malys' hands were already covered in icy vapor. "Yamarz cared nothing for the plight of his tribe—only for his own skin!"

Vinye now saw Ugluk reach into one of the sacks, and he produced three large dark crystals from within that made her stomach shrivel. _Black soul gems_. Sparks leapt up in her hand, and she readied Kinsbane in another; out of the corner of her eye, she could see Cosette bringing her twin blades to bear. Those dark gems in Ugluk's hand proved that he was being serious now— _deadly_ serious.

"These were not for you," Ugluk said, breathing heavily in and out as he pocketed the gems. "Many come to watch me work. Some want to buy. Others want to learn. But some want to take my skills by force—and I show them how I make my treasures from the inside of a soul gem.

"You are different," Ugluk told the mages. "You have played your part, and you are no longer necessary—but without you, I would not be here. I will forge new weapons with your souls— _powerful_ weapons—and I will display them in my longhouse to honor for all time what you have done for me … and for Largashbur."

The Orc unhooked his glowing hammer—the soul trap was at its full strength, and Vinye wondered if perhaps it sensed the essence it was about to imprison inside those gems, where it would rot until they were destroyed on the enchanter's table to fuel some new weapon. That this was his way of "honoring" them did little comfort at all.

But none of them had any time to further ponder the situation; Ugluk raised his hammer aloft, and crouched down, putting all his weight onto his foremost foot.

That was all the warning the mages had before the gigantic Orc charged at them with a roar.


	13. XII

XII

" _Scatter!_ "

Vinye didn't need telling twice from Cosette. As soon as Ugluk launched forward straight for them, she'd leapt off to the right, while Malys and Cosette had jumped left. Her sizzling hands were throwing lightning bolts aplenty at the charging Orc, but the Daedric armor was well enchanted indeed—the bolts that did hit Ugluk were hardly even slowing him down, thanks to the magic resistance imbued within it.

Vinye frantically unclipped Kinsbane from her belt, and swung at Ugluk as she tried to sidestep him. But the Orc was too fast and too well armored; the elven blade barely made a dent in all that Daedric armor, and air whooshed from Vinye's stomach as Ugluk shoulder-checked her just as he had that giant from before. Only at the last second did she avoid certain death; by twisting her body and going with the impact, Ugluk's spiked armor only ripped through the Altmer's robes, rather than the rest of her.

She tumbled into the snow, and wasted no time in twisting her body to the side—again not a moment too soon; Ugluk's ancestral hammer thudded into the snow right where her heart had been. Somersaulting backward, with an agility fueled by the adrenaline rush of a true fight to the death, Vinye let loose with two more bolts to Ugluk's cuirass. They didn't even faze him.

_Damn!_

Ugluk raised his hammer, and Vinye knew she had no time to scramble again. But a cry from far off distracted them both—and Ugluk stumbled as two fireballs hit him just under his chin. The enchanted armor dispelled the worst of it—but the blasts had given Vinye enough time to make her escape.

She got to her feet just in time to see Cosette run towards them, Forsworn blades in each hand. "Cover me!" screamed the Breton. Malys was already preparing to attack, and Vinye followed suit with yet more lightning.

While the two elves double-teamed the Orc from behind Cosette, the Breton charged with her twin swords aloft—holding one like a javelin. She thrust it at Ugluk's unprotected head, but he deflected it with a quick twist of his hammer, disarming Cosette. But Cosette's _other_ blade was already bearing down for his face, ready to slice off his head at the neck; the hammer was too bulky to block it in time—

But again, Ugluk did the impossible; he moved his head several inches to the right—and caught the crude sword with his teeth.

The mages stared in shock at this supreme act of reckless behavior. Cosette was especially thunderstruck, and her wide-open mouth made her look quite like a gaffed fish—even more so as the Orc crushed the weapon in his mouth, breaking the blade in two. It was especially impressive, Vinye thought, because Ugluk's teeth had not completely stopped the momentum of the attack; the serrated ivory points of the blade had wedged themselves into the Orc's lips, ripping into his mouth in such a way that he now had a very ghastly smile that showed every last one of his brick-like teeth and tusks.

But even as they stared at this horrific sight, the regenerative magic in Ugluk's armor was taking effect; the mangled flesh was knitting itself back together right before their eyes. Ugluk stretched his jaw, which made a few sickening pops and cracks, and growled a single word in Orcish glee.

" _More_."

Vinye had never seen anyone run as fast in her life as Cosette was running now—backwards, no less. The Breton's hands were almost a blur, she was releasing her firebolts so fast. "What are you waiting for?!" Cosette screeched. "Give me some damn cover!"

None of them needed telling twice, and they bombarded the Orc with fire, ice, and lightning.

"Aim for the head!" Vinye yelled in the confusion. That was the one part of him that wasn't protected by his Daedric armor—but the armor still made Ugluk's head look comparatively tiny. Cosette's fire magic would have little trouble hitting it, but Vinye knew that both and Malys were more precise in their attacks—and with such a small and quickly moving target, precision might not be enough.

However, as the three mages continued to besiege Ugluk over the next view minutes while simultaneously evading his soul-trapped hammer, Vinye was beginning to notice a pattern in his movements. Ugluk had nothing in the way of ranged combat—the Orc could only rely on his extreme speed to close the gap between them. And when he did so, he charged in a straight line; this made him very open to a counterattack—if he had been alternating his movements, zigzagging to confuse his enemy, then the mages might already be dead.

Ugluk charged toward Malys, who was clearly not prepared; the Dunmer tried to scrabble away—and then her hands erupted in dark red energy that Vinye had never seen before. Somehow she doubted this was a spell she'd known in the past. And the color …

The scarlet-colored magic hit Ugluk full in the chest, and he staggered back with a surprised grunt. Vinye's mouth dropped open—that Malys had been able to finally score a hit on Ugluk was one thing, but the magic she was using was incredible. If Vinye concentrated, she could actually see the scarlet energy washing over Ugluk's armor, and seeping little by little into the gaps between the plates.

Ugluk dropped his hammer in the snow, and raised his hands up to chest level, staring at them in confused terror.

"My enchantments … " he could only manage to say. Then he looked at Malys, and his expression turned murderous. He did not say anything—merely raising his hammer and charging with another loud, angry bellow—but there was no doubt that he'd clearly arrived at the same conclusion as Vinye.

 _That was vampire magic_.

"I'll crush your spine to paste!" roared Ugluk in fury as he charged for Malys.

Malys followed up this display of power with several more ice spikes in rapid succession. Ugluk, still absorbed in whatever Malys had done to him, tried to duck aside this time, but he moved too late. Several spikes burrowed themselves into his armor; it was still thick enough to stop the worst of the attack, but the shards had clearly penetrated the armor—and Ugluk's reaction told Vinye that they had grazed some vital points.

"He's weak!" Malys hollered at them. "But I'm not doing enough dam— _augh!_ "

Ugluk, swinging in a blind, panicked rage, had caught Malys with the side of his hammer. Somehow, the soul trap didn't go off—Malys had survived that one hit, whether by her unique body or out of sheer luck. But the vampire was still no match for the hammer's momentum; Malys was lifted off her feet, and crashed into a nearby snowbank and did not move.

 _No!_ Vinye thought. She saw Cosette sprint over to Malys; the Breton had reclaimed her remaining blade, and was using her other hand to try and heal Malys of her injuries, while holding her sword aloft to block Ugluk's attack—for all the good it would do; against a Daedric hammer of that size, she might as well have been holding up a willow switch to stop a rampaging mammoth. To make matters worse, her frantic healing spells weren't healing Malys' wounds quickly enough—if at all.

Cosette seemed to notice that she was at a disadvantage here, and so she backed away from the Dunmer's prone form, drawing Ugluk away from finishing off the Dunmer once and for all. At the same time, Ugluk's back was turned to Vinye, and the Altmer took this as a sign to keep up her barrage, and so—after taking the quickest of drafts from a potion to restore some of her magicka, while Cosette was still fighting—Vinye did just that, stitching the distance between the two with one bolt after another.

The Breton, meanwhile, had sheathed her blade, and was now releasing a continuous stream of flames from each hand. While Vinye had replenished her reserves with that potion, she'd managed to conjure an atronach as well, and the flaming construct was following suit. It was just as well that Cosette was an able conjurer, Vinye thought—they would need as many extra hands as they could spare to bring this Orc down.

And the flames from both Cosette and her summon were definitely having an effect on Ugluk, the Altmer could see. The Orsimer was beginning to sweat from the pressure, and while this could easily be dismissed as a remnant of fear from Malys' spell, it was also possible that the same armor that made Ugluk nearly invincible was beginning to work against him. Maybe the Daedric-forged armor could withstand Cosette's flames, but there was no blocking the heat that came with the fire—and Vinye suspected that the Orc who was wearing that armor was being boiled alive!

Sure enough, Ugluk was moving much more slowly than before, and he was beginning to stumble. Cosette and her atronach moved in closer, continuing to press on their attack.

"We need more numbers!" Cosette called out to her. "Get out an atronach!"

Vinye shook her head. "I can't!"

Cosette spluttered. "What? Why?" Her flames were beginning to burn lower.

"I—can't!" spluttered the Altmer.

The Breton's eyes widened, and despite the situation, she scoffed in annoyance. "Vinye, I don't give a rat's arse if you have to use a scroll! Just give us an atronach, damn it!"

"I don't want to hurt anyone!" Vinye blurted out, before she could stop herself …

* * *

_The Hall of the Elements was quiet now; the hour was late, and all of the students had returned to their beds—all except for her, at least. She had been determined to show the Arch-Mage that she truly belonged here._

_And so it was that she sat down in front of the magickal font that formed the centerpiece of the hall. The chin-high stack of ancient tomes in her hands was set reverently upon the ground, and she wasted no time in cracking open the topmost one on the pile._

_Hours passed, where she moved her lips soundlessly, repeating words and instructions under her breath in arcane tongues, and her eyes skimmed over the faded writing so quickly that they would appear blurred to an outsider. The pile of unread books gradually shrunk with each passing hour._

_Morning came, and still she did not move from her spot. Other students were beginning to congregate in the hall, and the more advanced of the lot were already practicing spells of their own. Were she less occupied, she might have scoffed at them. Fear spells, fireballs and magickal armor—none of them would suffice for her. She wanted to impress—to finally be accepted at a school that deserved the term!_

_Then she saw a few of the instructors. She recognized Faralda from the entrance to the College—having had to cast a few mage-lights in rapid succession to gain entrance to the gate. At her side was a grizzled but kindly-looking Nord. Immediately, she knew that this was her chance. She closed the tome, set it aside, and stood in the center of the Hall._

_She raised a hand, and began chanting her incantation at the top of her voice. As the arcane words echoed around the hall, students turned to stop and stare, intrigued by the ambitious elf before them._

_Now._

_Her hand glowed purple, and after she concentrated every last bit of magicka inside her that she could muster, she slammed her hand on the plinth. There was an explosion of light, sound, and bright purple fire, and as soon as she heard the sound of electrified rocks grating against each other, she knew she had succeeded._

_Until the first of the lightning bolts hit._

_The students had backed away, and their wariness at seeing what the young Altmer before their eyes had conjured was all that saved them. They ducked behind the pillars of the Hall, and the first bolt from the monstrosity exploded harmlessly against the window, shattering a pane and filling the Hall with the thin scream of Winterhold's wind._

_Screaming, too, were the students as two more bolts, then three, and finally an entire storm's worth of incandescent energy filled the Hall. Pandemonium ensued within a matter of seconds, and the instructors were powerless to rein it in._

_Their shouts could be heard over the commotion. "It's gone rogue!" "Get the students out of here, now!"_

_She did not hear them; she nearly bowled over a short, red-haired Breton in her haste to leave, and tears of humiliation streaked down her face. For all her research and preparation, she had made a novice's error._

_She had failed._

_"Damn it, Phinis, why isn't it contained?!"_

_"It's too strong! That lightning breaks my wards like they're nothing!"_

_"Tolfdir, send for the Arch-Mage, now!"_

_She fled up the nearby staircase as the old Nord she'd seen earlier ran up the opposite flight of stairs. A scrum of students followed behind, ushered by some of the more levelheaded bunch out into the courtyard. Everyone was too much in a hurry to notice she was there, and even if someone had doubled back for another look, she had already disappeared up the stairs and through the door._

_Any other day, the sight that now lay before her would have left her awestruck. Books upon shelves upon walls of arcane literature greeted her. For an elf who had devoted her life to gaining enough magickal strength to maintaining her anonymity—and disposing of any Dominion troops in the way—this was her sanctuary._

_For now, though, all she wished for was a place to hide—somewhere she could curl up and cry. It was just like Falinesti all over again. Her magic had run amok … and people had been hurt in the process—perhaps even killed._

_She was undisciplined, unruly, and out of control—just like the atronach raging in the Hall below her._

_How could she live with herself now?_

* * *

… "Innocent people have _died_ because of me!" Vinye cried. "I don't want anyone else to get hurt!"

As Cosette looked at Vinye, jaw slack, the last of her magicka was expended, and the last of her fire flickered and died in her hand.

And then Ugluk lunged at them so quickly that Cosette had no time to react. The Daedric hammer swung sideways in a huge black blur, and connected solidly with the atronach's head. The summoned construct self-destructed almost instantly after that, and Cosette screamed as the shockwave from the detonation propelled her into the snow.

Vinye swore under her breath. Ugluk had deceived them; he'd made it look as though Cosette's flames had weakened him. He'd been counting on the Breton to close the distance for him—and Cosette had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. Now without her atronach to cover for her, Cosette was scrambling backwards in the snow, just like Vinye had earlier, zigzagging all the while to evade Ugluk's mighty hammer.

"Get away from her!" the Altmer yelled, blasting a lightning bolt at the Orc. But in her haste to save Cosette, she'd used a little more magicka than she'd counted on, and a portion of it reflected off Ugluk's armor and into a nearby pine tree. The superhot blast blew a large part of the foot-thick trunk to smithereens, and the conifer groaned and creaked dangerous—it was going to fall on them both, Vinye realized with a gasp of horror.

Cosette had noticed, and Vinye saw the look of panic on her face as she tried to roll away with every bit of strength she had left. She desperately brought her Forsworn blade to a defensive posture as Ugluk swung downward. How the crude construction didn't break then and there, Vinye didn't know—if Ugluk hadn't crushed Cosette's other sword with his teeth, she might have attributed it to some hedge-magic the Forsworn were known to use.

Then the tree crashed. Cosette disappeared beneath a blur of branches and dislodged snow, but Ugluk had taken the full brunt of the force, and Vinye doubted that even his Daedric armor could withstand a hit from something as solid as that tree. Nonetheless, she waited with bated breath, and for a moment the pops and hisses of the gigantic fire in front of Malacath's statue was the only sound they could hear over the wind.

Suddenly, some of that snow was dislodged, and Vinye's heart began to pound as she brought her lightning to bear. But she relaxed as she saw the tiny fist punching the air as Cosette extricated herself from the white mass, shaking snowflakes out of her blackened hair. Her robes were ripped in a dozen places, and she looked angry.

"A tree?" the Breton shouted at Vinye as she slowly tottered towards her, clearly still shell-shocked from recent events. "Did it ever occur to you that that might have been overkill? Or that someone— _no names_ —that _someone_ might not actually be wearing enough armor to survive a _falling tree?!_ "

"I thought you were out of the way!" retorted Vinye as Cosette paused in her tirade to drink a potion from her satchel. "And besides, it worked, didn't it?"

The fallen pine tree chose that moment to _explode_ ; there really was no other way to put it, Vinye thought in her surprise. She shielded her eyes with her robes as fragments of wood and clouds of snow flew in every direction. When they had passed, she looked back at the tree, and gasped.

Ugluk roared in exertion, louder than ever, as he hefted the remains of the fallen tree over his head in an exhibition of strength that only this gigantic Orc could have pulled off.

He was in a bad way; the Daedric armor was still looking as solid as ever—one only had to look at the thirty-foot-long mass of wood to see that their many enchantments, in spite of Malys' magic, were still a formidable force in their own right. However, the joints, chains, and mail lying in between the spiked plates had taken a large amount of punishment indeed. The left pauldron was no longer on Ugluk's shoulder; it was just barely hanging on from a loose chain, and made a dull thudding noise as it swung back and forth against the cuirass. The right pauldron had actually fallen off completely, and lay half-buried in the snow like a Dremora's disembodied head.

And speaking of, Ugluk's face was covered in blood that was leaking from a large wound to his forehead. Most of the horned ridges lining his temples and brow had been shattered from the impact of the felled tree, and it even looked like his skull had been caved in from where the solid wood had struck him—all of which left the Altmer all the more dumbstruck at the incredible feat of strength.

 _How is he still standing?!_ Vinye thought in desperation. _What more will it take to beat him?!_

Cosette, on the other hand, looked at Vinye with a stare that practically screamed, _You just had to say something, didn't you?_

The Breton did not waste any further time with words, and immediately spun around and brought both hands together. A bright fireball blossomed from her joined palms and headed straight for Ugluk—but the Orc was too quick. With one movement, he'd used the massive improvised weapon to block Cosette's attack; instead of hitting him square in the face, the fireball had instead smashed into the tree. The force of the explosion broke it in two, but it also ignited the sap within, quickly engulfing the splintered wood in flames.

Ugluk didn't seem to care. As he discarded the lesser half of the tree, the enchanted armor was taking effect again, and with a few more sickening noises of bones being forced back into place, the Orc's crushed skull was mended right before their eyes in a matter of seconds, as though it was being inflated like a child's toy bladder-ball.

" _No one bests an Orc!_ " bellowed Ugluk, physically hurling the felled and flaming remains of the tree in the mages' direction like it was just another hammer.

"Look out!" Vinye, still awed by the sight, felt a tugging on her hand as Cosette frantically tried to pull her back. She snapped out of her reverie just in time, and backed away quickly enough that she felt a hot, ember-filled wind rush over her as the blazing pine swung at her, barely missing her waist.

Cosette wasn't so lucky; how the massive weapon didn't pulverize her on the spot, Vinye didn't know. But the blazing tree caught her right in the stomach, and she heard the unmistakable noises of crunching bone.

_No!_

Like Malys before her, Cosette was lifted into the air from the force of the impact. It seemed to take her forever to fall back to earth, but when she did, a horrified Vinye saw her crash into a tree with all the grace of a rag doll. The branches did little to cushion the impact, and Cosette fell to the thick roots.

Vinye wanted desperately to call out to Cosette, to Malys—to anybody—but she knew that wouldn't help her in any way now. She was alone now, against an Orc who just did not know when to die.

She needed help …

* * *

_"What are you doing here?"_

_She knew that she was in a library, and that she ought to show respect and be silent—insofar as her hiding under the most secluded table she could find was showing any respect at all. But she was so highly strung from recent events that the surprised scream from her mouth rang in her ears for what felt like hours._

_She scrabbled out from under the table, nearly tipping it over in her haste—and then bumped into something both hard and soft at the same time. Terrified, she looked up, and up … and up._

_The bearded Orc looked down at her with a bushy raised eyebrow. Orsimer by nature were terrifying indeed, and not wise to anger. But beyond this Orc's annoyed scowl lurked a hint of curiosity; he would not harm her so easily, she knew, but he still did not look like someone she wanted to anger._

_The question was: had she angered him already?_

_She gulped. "S-sorry," she managed to squeak. "I didn't want it to kill me so I came up here to hide and please don't tear me apart with angry atronachs I'm so sorry!"_

_The Orc let out a short, gruff bark that took her some time to recognize as a laugh. "Kill you?" he huffed. "Has Nirya been telling more stories about me? That incident with Orthorn's toadies was only the one time!"_

_She blinked. "I … don't know w-who that is."_

_The Orc shrugged. "I don't know who you are, either—but that doesn't mean I don't try." He knelt down till he was eye level with her, and extended a wrinkled green hand. "Name's Urag."_

_"V-Vinye." She held out her own slender palm, and the two shook hands._

_"So … why're you up here?" Urag asked her. "You don't look too happy to be here. That's not a safe place to stand with me." He gave a brief half-smile, nonetheless, that she did not notice._

_"No, no! I love books!" she said hurriedly. "I was up here all last night looking for books on conjuration! I wanted to show the Arch-Mage I could do really advanced magic—I wanted to show him I belonged here!"_

_There was a shout from downstairs, followed by a loud boom, and Urag looked at her. She avoided his gaze, and her eyes felt hot._

_"I … might have … made a mistake … " she whispered in shame._

_Urag groaned. "I'm terrible at this," she heard him say, half to himself. "What's your favorite book to read?"_

_She thought for a few seconds. "Um …_ The D-doors of Oblivion _," she finally decided._

_"And why's that?"_

_She cleared her throat, and recited, "'Conjuration, for the layman unacquainted with its workings, connects the caster's mind with that of the summoned. It is a tenuous link, meant only to lure, hold, and dismiss, but in the hands of a Master, it can be much stronger.'"_

_With each word she spoke from memory, she was pleased to see, her fear was lessening little by little. "Morian Zenas and Seif-ij Hidja were such good mages that they could listen to each other's minds. When I first read that book … I-I thought if I could learn as much magic as they did, I could learn to do the same thing, and teach other people to do it too. That way … we wouldn't need to lie to each other."_

_Images of Falinesti, burning and ruined, raced through her mind. "That way, maybe the world could be a better place."_

_Urag was silent for a long time. But before he could reply to her speech, the doors to the Arcaneum banged open, and the Orc strode over to see the three men who had entered._

_The one in the center was the grizzled Nord from before, and alongside him was a balding Breton man. On his other side was a Khajiit, a most unexpected sight in an institution of the magickal arts. His tail swished madly from side to side, but she could not discern anything else of their moods from where she sat._

_"All right, Urag," she heard the Breton say, in a tone that did not invite debate. "Where is she?"_

_"She's with me," Urag replied, and she froze. The Orc whispered something else to the others, but she did not care to hear them, so fearful was she._

_This was it, surely. Her career at Winterhold was over before it had even begun …_

_"On your feet."_

_She jumped, and hit her head on the table. "Ow!" She tumbled out from under her hiding place, and looked up to see three stern faces staring down at her. The Breton, who had spoken just now, looked more intimidating than the Orc, if that was possible._

_"The Arch-Mage was able to banish your atronach," he said, as she stood up. His face and voice were entirely unreadable. "I hope you take comfort in knowing that he had to use some rather ... 'creative thinking', to borrow his words … in order to dispel it."_

_She might have felt relieved at this, but … "Was anyone hurt? I didn't mean to hurt anyone! I'm sorry! I—"_

_The Nord held out his hand and shushed her gently. "It's all right, my dear. It's all right. We were able to evacuate the Hall in time. Some bruises and burns here and there, but nothing our dear Colette couldn't heal with her eyes closed."_

_"It could have been much worse, though," said the Khajiit gravely. "This one saw every opportunity for a stampede. Baan Dar was with us all today."_

_"What about my punishment?"_

_There was some confusion from the mages. "Punishment?" repeated the Nord._

_"I could have gotten you all killed!" she shouted. "Do you even care about that?"_

_The mages looked wounded—none more so than the Breton. "Young miss," he said, "unlike most institutions of magic in Tamriel, we care just as much about our students' lives as what they choose to do with them."_

_She frowned. That didn't really answer her question._

_"We didn't say that," said the Nord. "What you did may have been legal, strictly speaking, but that was very advanced magic you demonstrated today, Miss Vinye—perhaps too much so. You bit off more than you could chew, and it nearly killed you as a result._

_"Now, Tolfdir still maintains you may yet make for an exemplary student," the Breton went on, "and J'zargo here would only say he was … interested in watching you further. Nevertheless, an example must be made."_

_She gulped._

_"Urag has asked to see to the matter of your discipline," he said. "And I have told Tolfdir to give a mandatory lecture on safety tonight to all of our new students. I expect you to be punctual."_

_She looked at Urag, and swallowed again as the other adults departed the Arcaneum. The doors banged shut again, and made her cringe._

_" … So," she said meekly, looking at the Orc, "what kind of discipline did you have in mind?"_

_She saw the faintest hint of a smile cross Urag's face—and then it was back to its normal scowl. "My library needs a good cleaning," he eventually said. "No one bothers to pick up their own mess anymore. I think you've done enough spellwork and studying to last you through the week. So you're going to make sure everything's back in it's rightful place before this evening."_

_She bit her lip. On the one hand, that wasn't nearly as severe as what she had been expecting—but on the other, spending all day in here was going to cut into her study time. But she knew there was nothing else for it. At least she enjoyed a good read every now and—_

_She whirled around at Urag as she put two and two together, and felt a wry smile spreading over her face._

_"Not a word," said the Orc, holding a green finger to his tusks. She did the same thing to signify her understanding that what had just happened between them was not to leave this library._

_"And Vinye?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"You were wrong about Hidja and Master Zenas," Urag told her. "They weren't just very good mages—they were very good friends."_

* * *

_Friends …_

As Vinye thought back to her first day at Winterhold, she felt her eyes widen. _Could it really be that simple?_

She looked at Malys, and at Cosette. Both of them were still lying motionless where they were, and she felt pangs of emotion as she stared at their forms.

_They really are … my …_

A noise from ahead distracted her. Ugluk had recovered his detached pauldron in the snow, and had just finished replacing it in its rightful position. He gave a few experimental stretches, and then turned back to Vinye, hefting his hammer.

He wasn't taking any chances, she realized. _He wants to have all the cards in his hand before he even thinks about finishing us off._

But it wasn't over yet. Vinye knew she had one last card left to play.

And so she concentrated. Just as she had her first night in Winterhold, she put every last drop of her magickal reserves into the palm of her hand. She called out to Oblivion with her mind, transforming the energy in her palm into a swirling conduit of amethyst energy.

_Protect them._

She kept on murmuring the incantation under her breath, but so resolute was that one thought in her mind that all her chanting; indeed, all the noises of the outside world—Ugluk, the wind, the snow—was drowned out through sheer force of will. And then, she saw images of Cosette and Malys pass through her head; she remembered Urag's words once more, and felt her resolve strengthen.

_Friends …_

Finally, when all her magicka had been expended into her offering to Oblivion, Vinye slammed her flaming palm on the ground, and the snow around her erupted in violet flames, just like before at Winterhold. But she knew deep inside that this time would be different—it had to be.

_I have to protect them._

She closed her eyes briefly to shield them from the blinding light of the arcane fire, and the sizzle of the portal to Oblivion was quickly replaced by a sound that she had only heard once before in her life—but had become so familiar to her that it felt like the greeting of an old friend.

The storm atronach was enormous, easily half her height again even without it levitating several inches above the snow, and at least six times as broad. Dozens of porous, electrified rocks, each one the size of her chest, were crudely clumped together to form a stocky torso. The smaller stones orbited its core, while some of the larger ones branched off on either side to form a pair of rudimentary arms.

_I have to protect my friends!_

The storm atronach heard her thoughts, and she innately sensed it understood them as well; the construct wasted no time in charging for Ugluk. The Orc, who was clearly caught off guard by the sudden arrival of this monstrosity, recovered quickly, and swung with his hammer. The solid Daedric weapon connected with one of the larger rocks, pulverizing it into dust—but the dust swirled around the center of the atronach now, and several electric arcs coursed through this dust, and into Ugluk's hammer.

The Orc growled in pain, and brought his hammer into a two-handed blocking position as the atronach began to pelt him with lightning bolts. The atronach was slow to fire, but Ugluk—perhaps sensing that it would take a little more than brute force to outlast it—was not attacking, but defending himself from the spells instead.

As this fight commenced, Vinye was already busy with more important duties. She ran to Cosette first—her Altmer body glowing blue as her magickal reserves replenished themselves—and applied as much healing magic as she could towards the Breton. Mercifully, she was not too late—Vinye heard several pops and grinding noises that sounded like several smashed ribs being pieced back together.

She was just beginning to run low on magicka again when Cosette sat bolt upright with a roar of pain, sending a surprised Vinye staggering back a few steps.

"What's going on?" Cosette rasped at her through deep breaths. "How am I not dead?"

Vinye looked back, and the Breton followed her gaze to the storm atronach currently grappling Ugluk's hammer in a deadlock. Judging from Cosette's expression, she seemed to understand.

"Can you stand?" Vinye offered her hand, but Cosette waved it away, getting clumsily to her feet and retrieving her Forsworn blade from the snow.

"I can do better," replied the Breton, stretching her limbs with a grunt. "How's Malys?"

Vinye looked back toward the unconscious vampire. "I was just about to try and heal her."

"Then do it." Cosette's face was stony as she handed a large red bottle to Vinye. "Let me finish him off—it'll be better for you if you don't get in my way."

The high elf tried to protest, but Cosette had already shoved her away. Flames wrapped around her free hand, and the air around the Breton began to shimmer and distort—as if she was warping light itself around her body.

Vinye stared at the spectacle for only a moment longer before she remembered where she was, and what she had to do. She hurried over to Malys, preparing both her healing magic and the potion Cosette had given her.

She laid her glowing hand on Malys' chest, and concentrated her magic there—but nothing happened. Confounded, Vinye tried again—but still, the vampire's wounds did not heal. _Is it because she's undead?_ Vinye thought. _Maybe healing magic doesn't work on vampires_.

Then she remembered the potion Cosette had given her, and tipped the contents into Malys' mouth. The effect was immediate; Malys' eyes shot open, and she gave a weak cough.

"Not so quickly," Vinye cautioned her. "You took a hard hit, Malys—and even you can't shrug that off so easily."

Ignoring her warnings, the vampire rummaged around in her pack, searching for a potion that hadn't broken in her fall—and judging from the sounds of broken glass, Malys had lost quite a few of them. But eventually, she came across a tiny blue bottle swathed in protective linen, and swallowed its contents in a single gulp. That was enough for her to raise her own hand, and use her own healing magic on her wounds. This time, the magic was successful, and Malys gingerly rose to her feet.

"Let's go," Malys said, stumbling forth with Vinye at her side.

"We'll fan out," Vinye told her, "and trap Ugluk against the cliff wall." Then she saw Cosette, and her face became grim. "Because whatever Cosette's doing to him right now, I'm not sure I want to get caught in the crossfire."

At that moment, the Breton in question was a stone's throw from Ugluk. Both hands were throwing one fireball after another at the interminable warrior, and explosions rocked the air. Cosette had the Orc on his knees, but it looked as though this was more because of whatever that shimmering energy around her was. Vinye was reminded of the vampiric spell Malys had used on him earlier, and looked to the dark elf for an answer.

"She's absorbing the enchantments—adding the magic in that armor to hers," was Malys' reply, as her undead eyes scanned the scene. "That's no ordinary ward she's using—even my own draining spell couldn't do that much to him!"

Vinye was shocked at this, but she set her jaw—speculation could wait. "Then let's hit him while we still can—we may not get a better chance than this."

No sooner had she spoken than Malys released a miniaturized blizzard in her hand, which grew and grew until it enveloped Ugluk's armored body. At the same time, Vinye's hands coiled with lightning, and she fired several well-aimed bolts at Ugluk. She targeted his knees and elbows, weakening the joints there and making him lose his footing even more.

The storm atronach, meanwhile, fired a massive thunderbolt at Ugluk, which caught the Orc right in the chest. He stumbled heavily, and Vinye knew that that had been a very serious blow. But the atronach wasn't done. It charged at Ugluk, arms spread out to their widest—and blew itself up with an enormous bang that sent the armored Orc flying.

Ugluk's big mistake had been his caution. Nowhere had the Orc taken any chances to kill them while the mages were down, as with Vinye and Cosette. He'd wasted a lot of time by electing to make sure his enchanted, nigh-invincible armor was in working order instead. But this had given them all time to collect themselves, and come together as one.

Now, as Ugluk crashed against the cliff from the force of the atronach's suicide, sending cracks in all directions, Vinye saw his red eyes widen, and even before the first rocks began to fall, she knew he'd arrived at the same conclusion.

She turned to run back to Cosette and Malys. "Get back!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, but the avalanche had already drowned out her warning. Hundreds of tons' worth of rocks and snow rushed down the mountain with the speed and power of an entire flight of dragons, consuming Ugluk within an instant. The statue to Malacath was buried up to its pedestal, and some of the loose snow and debris covered the monument's bare feet, while he rest of it was diverted either side of the enormous stone statue. A large amount of it landed on the giants' fire, and snuffed it out in an instant.

As the dust and snow settled, an unearthly quiet took hold over the grove. None of the mages wanted to move, or even to speak, out of fear that Ugluk might take them by surprise yet again. But eventually, they heard the noises of shifting rock—very faint noises—from behind the statue. Nodding to one another, they brought fire, ice, and lightning to bear, and slowly made their way to the source of the noises.

Vinye was flabbergasted to see Ugluk digging his way out of the rubble—but it soon became clear to her that even if he had survived this minor cataclysm, he would not be getting very far. The massive rocks, stained crimson all over, had crushed his cuirass, and his body beneath them. There was no way his spine had not been smashed as a result—and spinal injuries were nearly impossible to heal, even for devoted healers in the service of Kynareth, Vinye knew.

For a warrior like Ugluk, they were a kiss of death.

The Orc tried to stand up, using his hammer and Malacath's statue as handholds, but the rockslide had finally proved too much for him, even with his armor and its depleted regenerative enchantments. Ugluk was only able to stumble to his knees, and turn his broken body round to face their direction. He muttered something indecipherable—all the Orc could produce was a few short-lived bubbles of blood from his hemorrhaging mouth. The look in his eyes was pleading—but something told Vinye it was not because he was fearful for his _life_.

"You fought well," she said softly, reassuringly. She tightened her grip on Kinsbane. "I think your wife would agree."

With those words, Ugluk seemed to relax, exhaling. He did not bow his head or close his eyes, but rather looked Vinye straight in the eye, not even daring to blink. He wanted to stare death in the face, Vinye realized.

 _He's an Orc to the last_.

Still gripping Kinsbane, Vinye sent some lightning magic into other hand, and clutched the dagger with both hands. The lightning flowed through Kinsbane, running down the moonstone-and-quicksilver edge of the elven dagger.

Ugluk kept on staring.

The next three seconds Vinye waited were the longest seconds she'd ever felt in her life. She brought the blade to bear, raising it high above her head.

Ugluk still kept on staring.

Vinye closed her eyes, and brought Kinsbane down with all her might. The electrified dagger pierced through Ugluk's skull, and the shocks coursed through his brain in less time than it took for him to react. His eyes—still unblinking in their sockets—widened imperceptibly, but that was all he had time to do.

Vinye wrenched out the dagger with a grunt, and for one brief moment, it seemed as though the giant Orc would still stand. And then, at long last, Ugluk's body fell forward onto the pile of rubble. The ancestral Daedric hammer clattered on the dislodged rocks with a final _clang_ , and Vinye let out a sigh that she didn't know she'd been holding in—which promptly choked in her throat as something whirred in her rucksack.

She had completely forgotten about Septimus' device—she had assumed Tolfdir had confiscated it along with all the rest of the artifacts they had accrued. But apparently, this had escaped his grasp somehow—and now, sensing spilled elven blood, the strange little machine released its thin tendrils for a fourth time, piercing Ugluk's brown skin and extracting every last drop.

Vinye braced herself for the inevitable—there was no way that either Cosette or Malys hadn't seen or heard that.

"What did you just do?" It was Malys who spoke first—but Vinye noticed she wasn't looking at her, but rather at Cosette. "I saw that ward before—when we fought that wispmother—but I never thought much about it until now. What kind of magic was that?"

Through her incipient relief, Vinye felt curious to know herself just what Cosette's little trick had involved.

"Most people call it an absorption ward," Cosette said simply. "But it's … a little more complicated than that. It doesn't just absorb spells, but raw, natural magicka as well—from anywhere it can find. The bottom line is that it's a trait of my family, and trying to learn it would be a waste of your time.

"Speaking of learning spells," Cosette said, crossing her arms at Malys, "care to talk about that spell you used on Ugluk before he knocked you flatter than Helgen?"

"I found it in a cave under the Velothi range while you were roaming around the Reach," Malys said. She looked at Vinye in a very meaningful way, and the Altmer took this as proof positive of vampire magic if ever she'd seen it. "You wouldn't believe what I had to go through to learn it."

Cosette smiled daringly. "Try me."

Malys smiled back. "Maybe another day. But there's one more thing I'd like to know."

Vinye sighed—there was no sense in hiding that much. "I got a hold of this before I found Sunder," she explained before the Dunmer could say anything. She produced Septimus Signus' extractor from her satchel. "Someone gave it to me—and in return, he'd give me information about a project he was working on that dealt with the Dwemer."

Malys blinked. "I was just going to ask how that atronach was able to get here," she said, pointing to the spot where Vinye's summons had broken apart. The high elf felt a combination of pride and embarrassment as she remembered that that had indeed been _her_ very first storm atronach—bound to her, and her alone.

"Not through a scroll," she finally settled on saying, with a smile in Cosette's direction. The Breton looked shocked for only a moment, and then laughed—long and hard. Vinye laughed with her, and eventually a rather confused Malys joined in as well. The Altmer felt a wave of relief wash over her—they had survived.

Her friends had _survived_.

"Wait—this man you saw … he's not hoping to cut in on us, is he?" Malys suddenly looked rather concerned.

Vinye shook her head. "He's with the College. Or used to be at one time, at any rate—his mind is in worse shape than his health, and that's saying something. But he's not what I'm _really_ worried about right now," she added, images of green tentacles oozing in her head.

Malys extended a finger. "What does this do?"

Vinye pulled the device away. "I wouldn't touch it," she chided the vampire. "Exactly what it does, I don't really know yet. So far as I can tell, it just extracts blood— _elven_ blood, no less, from each of the five primary sub-races of elves: Bosmer, Falmer, Orsimer, Altmer … and Dunmer," she finished, looking at Malys with trepidation.

Malys' face was unreadable as she retracted her hand—but whatever she was about to say next was interrupted unexpectedly by Malacath.

 ** _"Ugluk was an Orc to the core,"_** boomed the Prince, and all three mages jumped. ** _"But he had no vision—no dream to be greater than he already was. He might have wanted to be Chief, but he already thought he was at the top—and you three proved him wrong."_**

"What about the curse?" Cosette asked. "What about all those trials?"

A pause. **_"There are no more trials,"_** the Daedra finally declared. **_"Yamarz failed, Gularzob failed, and though Ugluk has earned my respect, in the end he failed as well. As for his mate … if she still wishes to call herself an Orc, then she will seek her honor elsewhere. Largashbur may yet serve its purpose, but there are none left to call it home now."_**

The pronouncement was as good as a death knell. Vinye felt a lead weight slipping into her stomach as Malacath's words sank in. After all that trouble—all that blood, sweat and tears—Ugluk's quest for redemption had ended in failure and death.

 ** _"You fought well … for mages,"_** the Daedra Lord admitted grudgingly. **_"You've earned Volendrung—so take it and get out of this grove before I change my mind."_**

And with that, Vinye felt a strange pressure releasing from her head that she hadn't even known was there, and she sensed that Malacath had left them for good.

Cosette, meanwhile, had picked up Volendrung, grunting in exertion as she slipped it over her the back of her tattered robes. "Gods, this thing is heavy," she commented apropos of nothing.

Neither Vinye nor Malys spoke. Vinye was not sure of the vampire, but in her case, she was saying a quiet prayer. Whether the Daedra or the Divines would answer it, she did not care; Ugluk had proven to be an impressive warrior who had lived an ideal life—possibly the only one such person Vinye had yet encountered in her travels through Skyrim. Taking that away from him was a major blow—and even the Orsimer blood sloshing around in Septimus' contraption proved to be of little comfort.

Cosette walked up to Ugluk's body, and began sifting through the rubble that trapped him under there. "Someone give me a hand here," she said to the two elves.

"What are you doing?" Vinye asked her.

"His armor may be destroyed, but this is still Daedric construction!" Cosette told her, eyes shining. "These weapons and armor could buy us a High King's ransom. We could be set for life if we sell this off!"

Vinye set her jaw. "No," she said firmly, thinking of how Ugluk had treated Yamarz' body. "It wouldn't be right. Ugluk was a warrior. He deserves to die as one."

"But—"

" _No_." Vinye crossed her arms. "Besides, do you want to tell me how we're going to carry it all?"

The question discouraged Cosette from asking any further about the Daedric works of art that Ugluk had carried into battle—though that did not stop the Breton from taking one last long look at the fallen Orc before they rounded the corner and back into Fallowstone Cave—towards Largashbur and civilization.

* * *

_Largashbur_

The three mages made it back to the stronghold by the first light of dawn. Mistress Malys, shielding Her eyes from the glare of the sun, saw that borgakh was waiting for them in the guardtower—even from afar, there was no mistaking that spiked armor. As they drew closer, the orc leapt down from her perch and made a beeline for them.

"Where is my husband?" she demanded.

None of the mages dared to speak. But although they could not see her face under her Daedric helm, Malys could tell her question was not an expression of anger, but of devotion. borgakh truly did love her husband, that much was clear—which made his fate an even more bitter pill to swallow.

The orc seemed to sense their unwillingness to answer her, and she merely had to look at the Daedric artifact slung over cosette's back to have some sense of the events in the grove. her rough voice cracked only a little. "i see," she said. "So … he did not prove worthy in malacath's eyes, then. Did he die well?"

vinye swallowed. "malacath seemed to think so," she said, avoiding looking at the orc directly.

"he _seemed_ to?" It took a moment for borgakh to take her meaning, and her armored gauntlets clenched in rage. " _You_ killed him?! How? _Why?!_ "

"We were only defending ourselves!" cosette said heatedly. "malacath wanted him to kill us to—!"

Malys, in spite of Herself, felt Her mouth fall open as borgakh crossed the distance between them in a flash and _slugged_ cosette right in her jaw. The breton tumbled to the ground, spitting blood and broken teeth from her mouth.

" _Then you should have died!_ " roared borgakh, so loudly that her words echoed on the mountainside.

Entire minutes passed before anyone moved or spoke, while Cosette healed her shattered jaw. Borgakh breathed heavily for what felt like hours, and when she next spoke, it was as though all the fire had gone out of her.

"Forgive me," she said. "I spoke out of turn. Too much blood was spilled because of this curse—I will not spill the blood of _mages_ because of malacath's decision." She shot an angry glare at cosette, and spat on the ground.

There was another long silence before vinye spoke up. "What will you do now?"

borgakh was quiet. "I will go to Mor Khazgur, and I will have words with my father and the wise woman. Perhaps they will help to determine my future."

She holstered her bow, and tightened the belt that carried her swords. "malacath has spoken; this stronghold is unfit for all orcs now. I will not go against his word—but I will not forget what has happened because of this."

Her voice suddenly grew very low, like a distant, rumbling storm. "You may have malacath's favor, but you do not have _mine_ ," she growled. "You killed my husband, and for that, you are no longer blood-kin to me. So if i were you, i would hope that we never meet again."

And with that—not even bothering to offer a simple farewell—borgakh turned on her heel, and marched out of Largashbur and onto the road beyond, leaving behind three trembling mages.

Mistress Malys was first to speak. "That … could have gone better," she eventually said with a sigh.

cosette grimaced, still rubbing at her jaw. "I'd much rather she tried to kill us." She cast a glance behind her back at Volendrung. "This is exactly why I didn't want to cut a deal with anything involving the Daedra."

"Better us than anyone else," Vinye reasoned. "If we hadn't gotten involved in this, there'd likely be some private collector knocking on the gate, with an entire legion of hired battlemages ready to burn Largashbur to the ground before long. And they wouldn't care who was inside, or what this place meant to them."

cosette raised an eyebrow, but shook her head and groaned. "This was just an all-around _bad idea_."

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," Malys shrugged. "We might as well head to the Reach, see if Arkngthamz is still in one piece."

vinye silently agreed. "We'll stock up in Falkreath, rest there if we can. If Taron doesn't show up in a day's time, then we leave without him—I don't care how much about Aetherium he knows."

"You're still sure about teaming up with him?" cosette looked skeptical. "I think he's hiding something. I don't trust that elf any farther than I can throw him."

"Neither do I," vinye agreed. "But we don't have much choice—the only alternative is to go in blind and alone, and that's a fool's end when it comes to dwarven ruins," she said, trying to make her voice sound as final as possible. She crossed her arms to that end. "So we wait."

cosette hoisted Volendrung over her satchel with some difficulty, but her short, stocky frame made it easier for her to carry the hammer than it would have been for the two elves. Once she'd secured it properly, the three mages set off, leaving Largashbur behind them—the gutted ghost of a once powerful stronghold.

* * *

_Winterhold_

Grimnir Torn-Skull stood in the courtyard of the College, flanked by J'zargo and Tolfdir. It was nighttime, and bitter cold thanks to the north wind that had been blowing from the Sea of Ghosts all day.

Two figures—one male, another female—walked through the gates before them. Their faces were shrouded in dark brown cloaks to protect against the freezing air. Grimnir knew who they were, but did not lower his guard nonetheless—with what was currently sitting about fifty feet below the courtyard, he wasn't taking any chances.

"Master Neloren," he rumbled through the dark green mask he currently wore. "Brelyna."

The two Dunmer did not remove their hoods until all five of them had crossed over to the Hall of Countenance.

"Solstheim seems to be treating you well," J'zargo said, attempting conversation.

Brelyna Maryon, of House Telvanni, ran a dark hand through her short black hair, brushing a few stray snowflakes off. "Solstheim is the reason we didn't come here sooner," she grumbled, though she smiled at her longtime friend. "Raven Rock is the only way on or off the island, and even after you took care of Miraak, Grimnir, there are still very few ships that choose to make port there."

Grimnir grunted. "You've been spending too much time around that Neloth, Brelyna," he said. "You don't simply 'take care' of another Dragonborn. The damage that Hermaeus Mora and Miraak caused will take a very long time to mend. And there's no telling how far the extent of that damage was—or even if it can be fully repaired." He remembered the look in Vinye's eye, and how he had felt the power of that Daedric Prince behind that stare.

"Regardless," said Drevis Neloren, "since no other ships were willing to come in to take us to the mainland, we had to take matters into our own hands. Rowing across the Sea of Ghosts from Solstheim to Skyrim is no easy feat, Arch-Mage—especially given the urgency of this situation.

"But that's enough small talk," he said to Grimnir, as the Arch-Mage led them to a trapdoor behind the staircase of the Hall, "Now, Arch-Mage, not that I don't appreciate visiting the College every now and again, but I'd like to know why you thought it necessary to call us both here."

Grimnir opened the trapdoor, and admitted all five mages inside. "Solyn has Keening."

Drevis nearly fell off the ladder. "What?! That artifact was kept in your personal quarters—under lock and key! How did he—?"

"One of our own students was able to steal it—one Malys Aryon," Tolfdir replied.

Brelyna frowned. "Malys Aryon? The same Malys Urag mentioned in his letter?"

"The very same." The aged Nord almost sounded darkly amused as they headed down one of the tunnels that led to the Midden. "From under our very noses, no less. Grimnir has assured me that she was punished accordingly."

Drevis didn't look too convinced. "How?"

Grimnir only spoke two words. "Arniel Gane."

 _That_ convinced Drevis. " _Ah_. But that still begs the question, Arch-Mage: _Why_ does Solyn have Keening?"

"Because I gave it to him." Grimnir's voice betrayed only the slightest hint of regret, but he nonetheless raised his hand before either Drevis or Brelyna could retort. "I did not do so on a whim, Drevis; Kagrenac's Tools, while powerful artifacts, are only a shadow of their former selves now. They were made specifically to counter the Heart of Lorkhan; when the Nerevarine used the Tools to unmake the Heart and the golem Akulakhan, their purpose was fulfilled, and having no other purpose, their power diminished to naught over the centuries."

Almost absentmindedly, Grimnir had conjured a candlelight spell, and the ball of white light glinted off his steel-gray mask as he looked Drevis straight in the eye. "As far as I am concerned, the Tools died with the Nerevarine."

"But the Nerevarine was reported dead in Akavir!" Brelyna told him. "And somehow, Keening found its way to Arniel only a few years ago! How do we know Sunder or Wraithguard haven't crossed over to Tamriel as well?"

"They already have," Grimnir said simply, as they entered the large space where Solyn's payment was being held. "Malys Aryon, along with two other students, has been helping me to collect Dwemer artifacts. We are keeping them in this room, under tight, _round-the-clock_ guard on loan from Calcelmo."

Brelyna raised her eyebrows as she noticed the many armored guards around her. "How many artifacts have you found so far?"

"Three," said Tolfdir, "including Sunder and Wraithguard."

Brelyna looked shocked. But Drevis looked angry, and his red eyes flashed at Grimnir. "You are taking an extraordinary risk here, Arch-Mage," he said through clenched teeth. "We are consolidating untold amounts of power within our walls, and you believe someone like Solyn will just take this lying down?"

" _No_ ," Grimnir said coldly. "And neither am I."

Drevis was silent for several moments as he stared back at Grimnir's unblinking mask. Finally, he sighed, and backed down. "Very well. But what does all of this have to do with me?"

Grimnir indicated the many sacks of gold with his hand. "Solyn was willing to pay a lot of gold for Keening. _Too_ much, I suspect, even for one of Kagrenac's Tools. We think there may be more to these septims."

Drevis nodded, apparently understanding. "You think the gold's enchanted?"

"It may not even _be_ gold," J'zargo said. His eyes were narrowed to slits, and he stared at one of the bags as if it would blow up on the spot. "Khajiit has seen the power of this Solyn, and this one smells something foul indeed."

"We already know he is a master of illusion," Toldfir added. "There are very few mages I know who are capable of deceiving an operational Animunculus—let alone an entire chamber of them."

Drevis was silent. "If all of this is true," he finally said, "then I will need to be as thorough as possible."

He turned to Brelyna. "I need dragon's tongue, dwarven oil, and all the taproots you can find in this College before sunrise on the morrow." Next, he approached J'zargo. "You, Tolfdir, and Phinis will assist me in my efforts at your earliest convenience. It is likely we may have to examine these septims one by one."

As J'zargo and Brelyna left for the Midden's exit, Drevis turned back to Grimnir. "Inform the students and all other staff that for their own safety, the Midden is banned from all access until further notice. I recommend that you enforce this restriction as only _you_ can." He looked at the Arch-Mage intently.

Grimnir said nothing. That was all Drevis needed; the two mages nodded in mutual understanding, and the Dunmer set off to make preparations for what Grimnir suspected would be the most complicated scrye he had ever made.

* * *

_Falkreath_

The town of Falkreath was a quiet one; nestled within a sprawling pine forest, it was a welcome respite from the chilling air of Winterhold and the general adventuring across Skyrim that had defined the mages' last few weeks.

Malys didn't seem to enjoy it much. "This place smells like death," she confided to Vinye, as the two strolled through the town square to enjoy the morning air. They'd arrived in town yesterday afternoon, and rented a room at the Dead Man's Drink. Cosette had had another firebrand wine as soon as the septims had been exchanged for the room, and was now sleeping off the effects of the fiery liquor, giving the two elves a chance to talk together.

The Altmer knew what Malys was talking about. "Falkreath's cemetery is huge—it's supposed to hold families from all over the province," she explained. "Probably beyond, too—this part of Skyrim used to be in Cyrodiil at one time."

Malys shook her head. "No," she said. "It's worse than that. There was something else here, but … "

Vinye swallowed. "But what?"

The dark elf was silent for a long time. " … I don't know," she said. "I wish I could say it was gone, but … I just have a very strange feeling about this town."

Vinye bit her lip—she could not avoid the question any longer. "Malys, when are you going to tell her?"

Her question was met with a noise of disapproval. "Cosette isn't stupid, Vinye. There's a chance I might not even need to. In fact"—Malys turned round to look at the Altmer—"I'm surprised she didn't learn about it from you."

Vinye twitched a little at that. "I still don't have any reservations about exposing you, Malys, but I won't do it on a whim. We know each other too well for that; neither of us would sell the other out now—especially not after what happened in Fallowstone Cave."

She crossed her arms, but she soon smiled at Malys. "Besides, I know how to keep a secret. I want the world to know truth—but sometimes I'm worried the world just isn't ready yet. So I have no problem keeping what I know to myself. For the time being."

Malys grinned, showing the extreme tips of her fangs. "I'm glad to hear you think so _highly_ of me," she said dryly, running her tongue along the gleaming points. "Does that mean you won't extract my blood with that little machine of yours?"

Vinye cringed—she'd rather not have thought about that. "Not unless you're volunteering," she said, offering a weak smile in return. Malys laughed a little at this—it was not a laugh that concealed any measure of ill intent, either, but a genuine one.

But soon, her smile faded, and the vampire's face took on a more concerned expression. "You told me in Whiterun that you hadn't been honest with me about something," Malys said. "What was that? Are the Thalmor hunting you or something—is that why you killed that one patrol in Eastmarch?"

Vinye had been steeling herself to make a lengthy explanation, but Malys—in a way—had summarized it quite neatly. "That's … actually the long and short of it," she said. "I've killed a great deal of their troops in the past. It was only a matter of time before their Justiciars had me labeled as a target for assassination."

The cleft running down Malys' face seemed to split apart her emotions—one side of her face looked perplexed, even worried, while the other side stared at Vinye with a quiet appreciation. Neither side seemed to suspect that Vinye had not, in fact, been telling the whole truth—and while the Altmer berated herself for that again, Vinye still had her scruples.

 _She's not ready yet_.

Unfortunately for her, Maly continued to press on. "And then there was that wood elf we met in Rkund," she mused out loud. "He seemed to be dead-set on thinking you were part of the Thalmor. Were you ever—?"

Vinye didn't hear Malys trail off; her face had visibly darkened at the mention of the angry elf. "No," she said, a little too harshly. "I was never one of _them_."

That was the truth, certainly. Perhaps stretching it a little, she thought—while she might have been a Justiciar-in-training in another lifetime, she hadn't yet begun preparations to join them, let alone accept them. So strictly speaking, she really was not a Thalmor. Not having to lie her way to answering Malys' question made her feel a little better.

But the fact remained that there were still patrols here in Skyrim. The Thalmor were very well organized, and communicated with a very clean efficiency. No matter how much she tried to make sure that any trace of her actions in Falinesti was expunged from the world—even if it meant killing any Justiciar who so much as looked at her—she knew her mother had to have learned about what had happened there, even from so far away in Alinor.

She was distracted by some movement near the bridge over the entrance, and motioned Malys to turn around when she saw who was standing there.

"Taron's here—guards and all, by the looks of it," the Dunmer said quietly, sounding not altogether surprised at the new arrivals. "I guess Cosette got some sense into him."

"Someone say my name?" a familiar voice yawned from behind; Cosette had opened the door to the inn, and though she was wide awake and alert, she still looked much the worse for wear. The smell of last night's wine was still clinging about her, and Malys sniffed in dislike.

Vinye did not need to answer her, as Taron Dreth and his retinue saw them standing outside, and the Dunmer researcher walked up to them with a winning smile and an air of anticipation that reminded her of Tolfdir the day they'd first set out to Rkund.

"We're ready to head out if you are," Taron grinned. "My guards have been freshly outfitted"—he indicated his retinue; all of them were clad in gleaming steel plate—"and our stocks are replenished. If Arkngthamz is still out there, we'll be able to explore every last inch of it!" he declared.

His enthusiasm was lost on the mages. "Whatever," Malys sighed. "Let's just get there while we're still conscious. There's too many smells in this town, and I'm not fond of all of them."

Taron smiled. "Lead the way."

* * *

Their first setback came surprisingly quickly—indeed, they hadn't even been walking for five minutes before it happened. They were just passing Falkreath's vast burial ground, and Vinye had felt a pang of sadness as she saw how many fresh graves there were. Even years after the fact, the Stormcloak insurrection had left Skyrim in a sad shape—perhaps almost irreparably so.

"Vinye!"

And then suddenly, Vinye's melancholy mood was shattered as Malys grabbed her arm, and the Altmer winced at both the vampire's cold skin and superhuman grip from out of nowhere.

"Please don't do that!" she said harshly. "I've told you, I don't like being sur—!"

"It's Rolega!" Malys interrupted in a whisper. "She's _right behind us!_ "

The name sent shivers through Vinye, and she froze in her tracks as she recalled the face of that mysterious thief. She turned around slowly—not daring to arouse any attention—and looked at Falkreath shrinking behind them. As they turned a corner, the Altmer could just barely see a girl with a farmer's bonnet tied over her black hair, relaxing near the cemetery with her arms crossed.

Cosette saw her too, and frowned. "Is that her?" she asked. "The thief you saw in Whiterun?"

Then the girl turned and walked away, disappearing behind a thatched house—and Vinye felt her breath catch in her throat as she saw her. It was only for an instant, but there was no mistaking that skull-like face—eyes darker than the night and stained with heavy black makeup. For the briefest moment of time, those black eyes met Vinye's green, and then Rolega disappeared behind the farmhouse and was gone.

"What is _she_ doing here?!" Malys whispered.

Vinye wasn't sure she wanted to know. Rolega the Quiet had been part of the Thieves Guild at one time—and that on its own was more than enough reason to make her suspicious of the strange Nord, to say nothing of how Rolega had acquired her knowledge of the Dwemer and the artifact Volendrung. More than likely it had come at someone else's expense—whether by septims or blood was something Vinye tried not to dwell on.

Willing herself to move after the shock of the sight, the Altmer hurried up to Taron's side with a much quicker step. "We should pick up the pace," she said to him, checking behind her shoulder every few seconds. "I don't like these kinds of places."

Taron agreed, looking round the area they were passing. "Perfect for an ambush, these pines up ahead." He signaled to his three guards. "Arms up and double time," he ordered them. "Kemal, Hjolgeir—watch our backs for trouble."

A Redguard and an equally burly Nord alongside the mages unhooked their broadswords and spread out towards the back, taking up positions behind them. But Vinye had no idea how much good that would do. That was twice now that the black-eyed thief had shown up close to them. And even though she hoped there wouldn't be a third time, Vinye wasn't sure if it mattered anymore—Rolega's presence here could only mean one thing.

_They were being tracked._


	14. XIII

XIII

The knowledge that Rolega the Quiet was tailing the mages—even though none of them could fathom exactly why the thief would elect to do such a thing—continued to be the foremost thought on their minds as they trekked with Taron and his guard across Skyrim.

Cosette wished that were the case for her, though. Vinye and Malys knew this thief better than she did, if only slightly, even seeing her handiwork in Whiterun. They had told her about the crossbow and her little sleight-of-hand exhibition, and Cosette had immediately suspected that Rolega was no ordinary thief even before they had mentioned she had been part of the Riften chapter of the Guild.

The Breton had never been that far inside the Rift before the mages' sojourn to Rkund, but she had heard stories—with the Morag Tong's presence in Riften, so said the guards there, she could immediately draw up parallels to the lawlessness that plagued the streets of Markarth in her time living there. There was no doubt in her mind that Rolega was a master criminal—and if the mages saw her again, it would be too soon.

But as the sun approached its zenith, Cosette looked up at the sprawling complex of stone that loomed before them. _Speaking of lawlessness_ , she thought. She quickened her pace slightly until she was at the front of the group, and then motioned them all to stop.

Malys frowned. "What's going on?"

Cosette indicated the massive fortress. "That's Fort Sungard," she explained. "The Forsworn used to have a base up there. Ever since the Stormcloaks captured it in their rebellion, they've been trying to take it back."

"Meaning?" Vinye looked uneasy.

Cosette set her jaw grimly. "Meaning once we pass this fort, we will be inside Forsworn territory. So every single one of us needs to be on our guard." She stared everyone in the eye. "I don't know how often you lot come out to this part of Skyrim," she told them, "but the Forsworn are more dangerous than you can imagine. They don't recognize anyone as superior to them—not the Thalmor, not the Empire … and certainly not the Stormcloaks. If you give them a reason, they _will_ kill you."

She turned around, with her back to them. "So if you want to turn around and head back home, I can understand completely."

Malys sniffed. "Not a chance. We've trekked at least half the province in the last week. I'm not about to be stopped by one last corner of Skyrim."

Vinye nodded in agreement, and Taron crossed his arms. "I've searched most of Morrowind myself—at least, the parts that weren't obliterated in the Red Year. I'm not letting these Forsworn types turn me back after two decades of hard work."

Cosette wanted to slap them all—no one knew the Forsworn better than she did, but Cosette was aware that if she told them too much, they would become suspicious. There was nothing to persuade them against it, she knew, and she heaved a sigh.

"All right—we move on," she said, taking the lead and resuming her walk down the road. "There's an inn about a mile further west—Old Hroldan. Maybe we can take on some supplies there."

* * *

Unfortunately, the Forsworn had been more active than even Cosette had anticipated; as they rounded a curve, they saw dark wisps of smoke in the distance, perhaps a half-mile away.

"That's too big to be a campfire," Vinye noted, shielding her eyes from the high sun.

Cosette swore under her breath. That could only be Old Hroldan; the Forsworn had attacked this place, she realized, and burned it to the ground—perhaps they knew why it was culturally significant to the Nords, how it was rumored that Tiber Septim himself had stayed in that place before handily defeating the Witchmen of High Rock—the precursors of the Reachmen and the Forsworn, some called them—in the Second Era.

 _They're definitely increasing their activity_ , she thought. _They wouldn't have dared to do this last time I was here_. This was a problem—they'd have to be scarce with what supplies they had. But that wasn't why she was angry.

"We can't stay on the road," she told them. "If that's really the Forsworn's doing, then there's going to be patrols out and about. We need to get out of sight before anyone can see us."

Taron pointed out a fork in the road. "We can take a left up there," he suggested. "It'll lead us further south. My sources suggest that the dwarves built a tower near the Jeralls—it could have been a lookout post for Arkngthamz."

Cosette knew what Taron was talking about; its original name had been lost to time, but the Nords in Markarth often called it Reachwind Eyrie. There was also an Orc stronghold very close by—Dushnikh Yal—but there was also no other significant Forsworn presence in the area. The closest encampment was near the ruins of the mountain often called the Karthspire; Cosette had visited there just last year.

"That's as good a lead as we've ever had," she conceded. "But we still need to keep our eyes peeled and our weapons out—and stay as low as you can until I give the say-so."

"What makes you the leader?" one of Taron's guards burst out indignantly. Taron himself made a guttural noise, and the guard was silent.

 _Because no one knows the Forsworn better than me_ , Cosette thought. "Because I used to live in Markarth—and I've spent more time in the Reach than all of you combined. So since I know the lay of the land better than all of you, I think that allows me—"

Cosette barely ducked the arrow at the last possible second before it would have found its mark in her right ear.

Immediately, all seven adventurers sprang into action. Taron and the mages brought their magic to bear on the hillside off to the right, where the arrow had come from, while the Dunmer's bodyguards unhooked their broadswords and spread their legs in an attack stance.

And then suddenly, the hillside exploded with movement and shouts. Brambles and bushes were hacked aside as half a dozen men and women, wearing scant collections of furs and bone—not all of them belonging to animals—burst out from their hiding place not a house-length away from the group, brandishing crude bows, swords and axes alongside their own magic.

"Forsworn!" Cosette yelled.

Even as she swore under her breath, she felt a grudging admiration for how effectively a group this size could conceal themselves. _They're getting better since I last saw them. I guess the Cullers are doing well enough without me around._

But the Cullers were myths to the Forsworn—and this particular band didn't seem like they were willing to stay still for a history lesson. Nor was Cosette prepared to face so many of them—in her experience, she was better facing them one at a time, assassinating them when they least expected it.

And so she turned and ran. "Come on!" she hollered to the rest of the group. "We're dead if we face them head-on! We have to run for it!"

Malys' response to that was an ice storm in the direction of several Forsworn; but the Forsworn were almost all composed of Bretons, meaning they were almost as every bit as resistant to magic as Cosette was. After noticing that her ice storm hadn't even slowed down the Reachmen, Malys seemed to decide that discretion was the better part of valor, and it wasn't long before the Dunmer drew neck and neck with Cosette as she sprinted southward off the road onto a worn dirt path.

The Forsworn continued to pursue them, occasionally firing indiscriminately at the fleeing adventurers with spells and arrows. Vinye yelped as a lightning bolt grazed her hip, and one of the Forsworn's forked arrows ripped into Cosette's arm; she bit her lip until blood flowed to ward off the pain, and she healed the gash as best she could.

Cosette was taking them through a narrow pass now, to funnel the Forsworn through a tight squeeze that she thought might turn their numbers against them. She could barely see the top of a Dwemer tower above the sheer crags—Reachwind Eyrie, she thought, just as Taron had said.

Yelling left and right for everyone to stand clear, she sent a pair of fireballs at the band of Forsworn. The explosions rocked the pass, and she grimaced in satisfaction as she looked out of the corner of her eye, and saw parts of at least one charred body fly every which way. But that was just a dent in their numbers, Cosette knew, and even her assault had done nothing to change the inexorable charge of the Forsworn.

But she knew of one thing that might—and unless the Forsworn had been particularly bold, it was coming up right on them … yes, there it was!

Dushnikh Yal stood before the adventurers like a shining beacon—insofar as an Orc stronghold could be considered "shining." But regardless, Cosette knew from tales how ridiculously stubborn the Orcs could be in defending their territory—and how ruthless they could be if pushed with the right amount of force.

 _A few Forsworn in hot pursuit ought to be enough to rouse this rabble_.

The Forsworn seemed to sense this, too, as she saw them slowing down out of the corner of her vision. It wasn't a full-on retreat, though—they were just merely looking for another way around. That meant they couldn't slow down. Perhaps they could stay inside for the time being, but the Orc strongholds were very interconnected in spite of their isolation. It was entirely possible that Borgakh had made sure news of Ugluk's death had spread throughout every stronghold in Skyrim by now. That was a risk Cosette didn't want to take.

So she continued running past the gates of Dushnikh Yal. "We can't stop now!" she called out to the others. "They'll be back, and they'll have reinforcements. We have to find Arkngthamz before they find us again!"

Malys was panting with every other step she took. "Is—that—it—up—there?" she wheezed, pointing in the distance, somewhere off to her right. Everyone followed her finger, and Cosette was surprised to see saw a glint of gold off the mountains ahead. _A dwarven ruin—here, of all places?_ That was not possible; she'd been through this part of the hold several times in the past—and she'd not seen so much as a tile of that Dwemer metal lying around.

But despite her thoughts to the contrary, Cosette knew the pieces all fit together: Reachwind Eyrie's function as a watchtower, the earthquakes in the region that could either conceal or reveal their destination—again, as Taron had said—which would explain why she'd never seen this ruin before in all the time she'd roamed the Reach.

"Arkngthamz," Taron Dreth said behind her. He'd slowed along with Cosette to take in the growing sight of the ruin. "Doesn't it look beautiful?"

That was a matter of opinion, Cosette thought. In and of itself, the sight was unremarkable—merely a pair of squat Dwemer towers flanking a great golden door—but after everything the mages had had to go through to get to this point, just the sight of it made them forget all about their individual trials and tribulations, of Ugluk, of Solyn, and of the Forsworn that were now lost to sight.

"Yeah," she eventually said, her throat dry and muscles aching. "Yeah, it does."

And then a burst of noise from just ahead of them made them forget all about Arkngthamz.

"For the Reach!"

Cosette had just enough time to count a full dozen Forsworn bursting from the bushes either side of the path. _They were baiting us_ , she belatedly realized. That smaller band of Forsworn must have been a ruse; they were trying to lure them here!

Taron and his bodyguards sprang into action. "Go," he told them. "We'll draw them off for you! Get to Arkngthamz—we'll meet you inside!"

Vinye nodded, and she and Malys began sprinting towards the hillside where they'd spotted the towers. Both elves fired off a few errant shots, though none of them were particularly effective. One of Vinye's lightning bolts glanced off a Forsworn's stone axe; the impact was enough to shatter the blade, sending shrapnel flying into the Reachman's face. He screamed, and dropped the remains of his weapon. Cosette finished him with a firebolt before he could heal his injuries.

Taron's palm flicked in the distance, and flashed with silver light. There was a loud boom, and then a rush of wind radiated outward from the spell the dark elf had just unleashed. Everyone staggered, and several Forsworn lost their headdresses—including the two Forsworn nearest her: a tanned male and a short-haired female with flaming red hair, and—

Then it hit Cosette.

 _The Forsworn had flaming red hair_.

For a few dangerous seconds, Cosette Ionsaithe paused, hoping that she had not seen some illusion.

And then the two Forsworn noticed her—her own fiery hair, and the fiery orange war paint over her eyes—and she felt a shriveling sensation in her stomach, as though her heart had simultaneously risen and sank, only to be cut in twain, and leaving an empty void in its wake.

_It can't be …_

But she knew there could be no other way.

And suddenly, Cosette was dashing for the pair of Forsworn, her heart beating madly at her ribs, threatening to burst from her chest. Tears came to her eyes—whether from fatigue, fear—or even relief—Cosette did not know or care.

She felt a pair of hands grasp her from around the waist and arms—two of them were ice-cold, and a corner of her mind realized they belonged to Malys. She and Vinye shouted indistinctly at the Breton, but she wrenched free of their grasp with a scream.

"Let go of me!" she cried out. Her voice sounded very far away—like it didn't even belong to her; it was someone younger, more innocent—the voice of a child. "I have to save them! I have to— _unngh_ … "

She didn't know who'd cast the spell—for all she knew, it might have been an errant attack from Taron. But it didn't matter—the bright green missile hit her in the back of the head, and Cosette immediately felt her limbs turning to lead, and a strange, blank feeling washed over her mind as her eyes became unfocused.

A stunning spell, she thought—and that was the last complete thought she had before feeling a tugging sensation at her elbows. The last thing she saw was the two unmasked Forsworn staring at her, and she stared back with a fierce determination that almost broke her out of the spell's magic.

_I … have to … save … my …_

Then the magic took full effect, and Cosette's vision went black.

* * *

Mistress Malys was furious.

Two more Forsworn had fallen to Her ice magic, while vinye had downed a third with a clever bolt that ricocheted off a nearby juniper tree. But the fourth was proving exceptionally difficult to hit, both elves were running low on magicka, neither of them could afford to drink a potion right now lest they lose the only advantage they had—the high ground just outside Arkngthamz—and as if this was not enough, cosette had decided, for no apparent reason, to _save_ those two Forsworn?! Malys almost applied a little too much magic into the spell She directed at cosette—but the magnitude of the Breton's folly more than made up for that.

_What in Dagon's name was that idiot thinking?!_

"Did you see that?" It didn't sound like vinye believed it either. "Those Forsworn—they had—!"

And then the hillside rumbled and shook, and Malys nearly lost Her balance, and cosette with it. She held Her hand out to vinye—clutching cosette's prone form around Her other arm. The high elf had nearly fallen on her backside with the force of the tremor, but Malys was able to stabilize her. Apparently taron had been right about these earthquakes, She thought, and She hoped that Arkngthamz was still stable enough to not collapse in on them.

The remaining Forsworn had disappeared as soon as the quake had started, but Mistress Malys was not taking any chances. "Come on!" She called out to vinye. The altmer took enough time to get behind the vampire and grasp cosette by the legs. The three mages quickly slipped inside the ruin without a moment's hesitation.

They did not exhale until long after the door had banged shut, and the tremors had finally subsided. They sat down in the entryway of Arkngthamz, drinking several potions and healing several scratches on their wounds.

"Is she all right?" vinye broke the silence, and looked at cosette with some concern.

"Just a simple stunning spell," replied Malys. "It should wear off any second now."

A loud _bang_ from outside the door made them all jump. "I hope it does," the altmer said worriedly, looking from cosette to the door and back again. More booms sounded from outdoors as both elves jumped to their feet and brought ice and lightning to bear.

And then the door burst open. The force of the incineration spell that the Forsworn had used to force open the door carried on its path through the corridor, exploding far off in the distance. Malys' face was nearly singed by how close she was to the fiery missile, and She bared Her fangs as the fur-clad female approached them, drawing her sword in the hand that wasn't encased in rippling fire.

"Come," growled the woman. "Come and face the Forsworn!"

vinye's response to her challenge was a pair of lightning bolts that bounced off the walls of the corridor and rebounded onto the breton woman. The Forsworn grunted, but the magic resistance unique to her race made sure it caused nothing more injurious than a few singe marks on her exposed flesh.

The breton answered with a massive blast of fire from both hands. vinye countered with a ward, and had plenty of time to do so. Mages lacked cumbersome armor and weapons, and while Malys knew they each had their own strengths, She also knew that mages had something more deadly. Not being burdened by either allowed for quicker movement of the arms and hands, and at a wider range as well. If a mage was quick enough with their movements, she could immolate or defend against an entire platoon of Legionnaires in a matter of seconds, and without even turning around—even if that platoon had surrounded her completely.

This Forsworn, however, was channeling more time and energy into her attack itself than the act of releasing and guiding it. But while this lack of subtlety might have proved a weakness in another situation, there was simply too much force behind the breton's fire for even vinye's ward to handle. The explosion dispelled her ward and sent her skidding along the wall; the altmer was unhurt from the impact, but too dazed to be of further use for now, much to Malys' annoyance.

"Child's play!" taunted the breton. "You are nothing to a true heir of the Reach!"

Malys growled back at her—and then Her stomach growled as well. The trip had made Her hungry, She realized—and Her last meal had been that measly little snow elf in Tolvald's Cave. She felt a gnawing at Her stomach; the recent battle had taxed Her more than Malys would like to admit. She could not hold back.

And She realized She didn't want to.

Malys clenched Her hands, freezing Her hands into jagged claws—and then She was upon the hapless Forsworn. She lashed out with Her left arm; the woman was slapped against the wall like a child's toy from Her vampiric strength, and she slumped to the floor.

 _Bad girl_.

Mistress Malys felt the familiar sensation snake through Her body, and She couldn't suppress a moan. She'd missed this feeling so very much—this wish to be in control, to help all those bad little boys and girls be good little boys and girls. Before, She had merely wanted to help them—She knew they would come back to helviane's abode, then; She knew the urge was just too great for them to bear.

But now, She could _make_ them be good—whether they wanted to or not.

The Forsworn stirred feebly, and groaned—still a little punch-drunk from Malys' claws. _We can't have that, can we?_ She thought. Her right hand sliced through the Forsworn's cheek, sending her to the ground again. "Be quiet," She hissed.

"Malys, no!" She heard vinye crying out at her, but She did not care to hear her.

"I told you to _be quiet!_ " She screeched as the breton attempted to get to her feet with the rumblings of a battlecry.

The Forsworn crawled away from Her, and Malys prepared another calm spell. She remembered the bandit, gjavar, and remembered how he'd sobbed before Her, and felt the familiar sense of anticipation sear Her insides.

And then the Forsworn lashed back at Her with her blade, and Malys was just close enough to her that the tip of the ivory point sliced Her own cheek. Her face stung with the pain, but She was pleasantly surprised to note that She didn't seem to care. After all, she knew pain quite well; She had spent so long helping _bad_ people to be _good_ through the pain She gave them. Why, then, should She withhold Herself from the same pleasure?

 _Yes_ , She thought, as she let the spell die in her hands. _Let's make this_ fun.

"What are you doing?!" vinye's voice might as well have been miles away for all the attention She gave it.

Licking Her lips, Malys expended a little magic to heal the cut—a little more than usual, and extended the range of the spell's effect a bit so the Forsworn could be healed as well. She fought the urge to laugh as the breton's face furrowed in confusion, despite her pain and fear. That pain and fear soon evaporated, though, and the sword was back in her hands in a flash. This Forsworn was a stubborn one, She admitted; She couldn't have this _bad girl_ spoiling the moment.

Five seconds later, then, Mistress Malys had crushed the sword under Her heel, where the Forsworn had dropped it. The Forsworn herself was shouting and cursing at Her, struggling in vain to free herself from the ice spike that nailed her to the wall through her palm. But her other arm was still very much free; the Forsworn unhooked a second sword from her belt, and attempted to jab at Her with it. Malys smiled again, and caught the wrist with Her clawed hand just as the toothed blade sailed within a hairsbreadth of Her stomach. She let it hover there, licking Her lips at Her prey.

" _Bad girl_ ," She spoke in a malevolent whisper—before She pierced Herself with the blade. The scream from vinye barely registered in Her ears. And neither did the pain—not even as Mistress Malys slowly drew closer to the Forsworn, skewering Herself on its ivory teeth. Her own blood and bile pooled at Her feet, staining Her black robe with dark crimson, but Malys did not care about that, either. Closer and closer she drew to the breton, who was beginning to tremble with fear at the monster barely inches away from Her. She moaned again, and then again, each time louder than before, as if the pain was gradually driving her closer to her peak of pleasure—

_Pleasure … pain …_

_You're a monster._

For a very brief moment, Mistress Malys paused. She blinked, wondering where that thought had come from. Was She really a monster? She looked from the icy claws tipping Her fingers, to the Forsworn blade still embedded in Her chest, to the Forsworn herself, who now looked absolutely terrified—and then Malys realized that that had not been Her thought at all. It had come from the Forsworn, and the declaration still echoed off the stone corridor.

And yet, it had still made her hesitate.

Was this really who She was reborn to be? A small part of Her had spoken up—weak and childish, but still clinging to some semblance of innocence.

_Pain … pleasure …_

Then the moment had passed, and Mistress Malys smiled—and crushed the tiny voice of dissent under Her heel, too.

 _No … I_ will be _a monster_.

Biting Her lip until yet more blood flowed from Her, Malys ripped the sword out from Her body, throwing it aside with chunks of flesh and intestine still caught on the teeth—but She did not care. She did not even notice the pain.

 _I will take pleasure as My_ pain _…_

In the blink of an eye, Malys had conjured up another ice spike, and the Forsworn howled as—just like the insignificant bandit from before—her other palm was nailed to the wall by the frozen missile, leaving her helpless before the vampire—

… _and_ pain _as My pleasure._

With a small effort of will and a little more magicka, Malys lengthened the icy claws on Her fingers, and began slicing into the Forsworn with the precision and care of a battlefield medic. Shouts came from behind Her, but She paid them no heed; the howls of the Forsworn were louder than them, and they spurred Her further still in punishing the _bad girl—_

Malys knew She could not hold back any longer—the urge was too great.

She had to feed.

And so She opened Her mouth wide, showing the Forsworn every last gleaming fang in Her jaws—before plunging it right into the helpless breton's neck. The metallic taste of warm blood—infinitely more appetizing than the sour excuse for nourishment that falmer had offered Her—was like an explosion in Her mouth, and the feeling in Her insides intensified. Malys tugged at the flesh and clawed at the struggling body, sucking air through Her fangs, and moaning again and again in excitement and exhaustion as though She was climaxing. The wound in Her chest felt smaller and smaller, and she felt the shredded flesh and entrails knitting themselves back together as the blood She'd ingested repaired the damage to Her body.

It seemed to take forever for the Forsworn to die, but die she eventually did, and her head suddenly lolled in Mistress Malys' jaws as she expired. With one last, long moan and a sigh of contentment, the vampire drew back from the breton's neck, and licked Her lips clean from Her meal of fresh blood.

Slowly, the outside world flooded back into Her senses, and Mistress Malys became aware that she was being watched. With the utmost calm, She slowly turned around, and met the wide eyes, open mouths, and horrified expressions of vinye and cosette without a trace of emotion.

" _That's_ why I can never go back to Windhelm," She hissed.

* * *

Cosette Ionsaithe could not believe what she had just seen.

From the moment she'd regained consciousness inside what she presumed to be Arkngthamz, the Breton had stared wild-eyed while Malys not only subjected herself to wounds that anyone would have called fatal—but also shrugged them off like they were nothing. A hundred questions had raged through her mind—how was this possible? How was she still moving, never mind living?

And then Malys had bitten into the Forsworn's neck, and half of those questions were instantly answered.

 _She was drinking the Forsworn's blood_.

Now Malys was looking right at them, her lips still stained red with blood as the carcass of the Breton fell at her feet. " _That's_ why I can never go back to Windhelm."

And as Cosette looked at the lifeless Forsworn on the floor, she remembered why they had come here, why they had fled—and her fear and confusion was suddenly replaced by a burning hatred of the Dunmer before her—no, of the _vampire_ —

"You shouldn't have killed her," Cosette barely heard herself growl at Malys.

The vampire picked something long and stringy from her fanged mouth. "I was hungry," she said, as airily as if Cosette has merely asked her for today's weather. "I had no choice."

"Shut up," Cosette said, clenching her teeth in fury. "You _shut up_. You had _no right_ to do that!"

"Why's that?" It was Vinye's turn to speak up; the Altmer was still obviously rattled by what she had seen, but Cosette could see the suspicion in her eyes as Vinye stared at her.

She didn't like that look.

"She could have given me information!" Cosette hissed, roughly shoving Vinye's face aside and marching up to Malys with anger in every step. "She could have told me about the Forsworn with her!"

And then her arm had reached out in a flash, and the Breton felt the cold flesh of Malys' neck on her fingers—and she _squeezed_.

Vinye started with a cry, but a low, primal growl from Cosette stopped her in her tracks.

"She could have told me where they were from—where they were going!" With every word, Cosette's iron grip tightened around the vampire's neck. She heard Malys beginning to gasp for air, but only just—the Breton's eyes were blurry with tears, and now her grip was beginning to weaken as her wrath began to choke her just as she was choking Malys.

" _She could have helped me save my family!"_

And with this revelation, Cosette finally crumbled, and sank to the stone floor, crying and raging like a child throwing a tantrum. She barely noticed the two elves edging away from her, but did not care. Her fury and helplessness at watching her family being pulled apart by the thrill of bloodshed yet again had finally boiled over.

It felt like an entire era had passed before Cosette finally got back up to her feet. Her rage at her own weakness was gone. Now there was only the rage for the creature in front of her.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she rumbled. "Why did you keep _this_ "—she swept a hand in Malys' direction—"a secret from me?!"

"Because I knew you'd react this way."

Cosette was almost— _almost_ —surprised to hear these words come from _Vinye_ , of all people. But again, the anger reared in her like a dragon before its prey, and she stared at Vinye with bared teeth.

"I don't exactly approve of it myself," Vinye went on, "But Malys hasn't tried to kill us, or—"

But Cosette refused to hear her. "You _knew_ about her?!"

"I did." Now it was Vinye's turn to be angry. "And I'd hoped you wouldn't have found out this way, Cosette. I was praying Malys would tell you herself, or that I would eventually—"

"Well, _why didn't you?!_ " Cosette screamed at no one in particular.

"Because we all have our secrets," Malys said quietly, looking from Vinye to Cosette and back again in a very meaningful way. "Don't we, Vinye?"

Cosette felt her anger ebb only the slightest bit as she watched the high elf slump a little and sigh. "She's right," Vinye said. "I'd wanted to come clean for a while now—but Skyrim's still a dangerous place. If anyone knew anything about who I used to be, I might already be dead."

"And why's that?" Cosette said harshly.

Vinye was silent for a moment. " … I'm on the run from the Thalmor," she sighed, and her slender Altmer body straightened a little, as though a large weight had vanished from atop her shoulders. "My father was a Justiciar with the Dominion—he was … _partially_ responsible for the massacre at Falinesti five years ago."

Malys' eyes widened, and Cosette felt her mouth suddenly go dry. "I've never heard anything about a massacre in Falinesti," the Breton said, still with a little edge to her voice—she hadn't even heard of anyplace _called_ Falinesti.

 _No_ , she immediately recanted—she had heard of it, only once … the wood elf in the ruins of Rkund …

" _Give me the branches of Falinesti_ _for this thrice-damned ruin any day of the week … "_

"No one has," Vinye replied acidly. "The Thalmor are very _thorough_ when it comes to purging the so-called _lesser elves_. But they lost everyone that night—everyone in Falinesti died, and it was all because of me."

Cosette was stunned as the words sank in. " … You slaughtered an entire _city?_ " she said in disbelief, forgetting her anger completely.

Vinye shook her head. "No," she replied. "I just finished the job. I don't know exactly what made me lose control—it could have been any one of a thousand things. I just know I wanted the slaughter to stop. I remember closing my eyes and yelling. When I stopped shouting, I opened my eyes … and everyone was dead. Civilians, soldiers … and even my father."

Malys started. " … You killed your own father?"

Vinye bowed her head. "I might feel better if I knew that I actually did," she said. "But the truth is … I really don't know. It's entirely possible that I did kill him—or that the wood elves got to him first. I just _don't know_. I didn't know _anything_ about what I'd done until after I'd already done it … and by then, I knew it was too late.

"So I ran—I had to. I fled to Cyrodiil—no one could ever find me there, or discover what I had done. I made a new life for myself, and I surrounded myself in studying the magickal arts after that, trying as hard as I could to drive the memory out of my head."

In spite of her fury, Cosette was surprised to find herself trembling at Vinye's revelations. Deep down—albeit grudgingly—she'd come to accept that this Altmer had genuine talent in her; Cosette only had to look at the storm atronach she'd used against Ugluk to realize that. But this was unheard of—she would never have suspected that this elf could be capable of such devastation. And then there was the long period of recovery after …

 _You always remember your first kill_.

Cosette had been ten when she'd killed a fellow human being for the first time. Back then, Ulfric Stormcloak was still alive, as was Torygg, the High King Ulfric would later murder to touch off the civil war of Skyrim. The dissidents that followed him then were little more than Ulfric's private army—they wouldn't be a major faction for another few years, but they had just as much distaste for the Reachmen back then as they still did today.

It had happened that one of their patrols attempted to eradicate a Forsworn camp in the redoubt of Serpent's Bluff, a stone's throw from Rorikstead. They had been cut down swiftly—and Cosette had drawn first blood. She never saw the face of the armored Stormcloak she'd killed, but every other part of the memory was as clear as day: the split-second hesitation of the Stormcloak, unwilling—if only a little—to slay one mere child, and then the surprise and horror as that one mere child grabbed a blade and buried it hilt-deep in his neck—

But more than anything, Cosette remembered the shaking and insomnia that came to haunt her later that day. It had gone on for a week—a whole week without food or sleep, so badly shaken was she. It had desensitized her, and later she came to understand that that was the whole point.

_You always remember your first kill._

But Cosette had been bred to be more than a monster—or even a soldier. As far as she was concerned, the Forsworn were a _force_ , plain and simple. They did not contain their fear and rage within them, bottling it up where it could be smothered like a wet blanket over a fire. Nor did they lash out with it—though the Nords might not be entirely undeserving of such a fate, that would make the Forsworn no better than them. If that were the case, the Forsworn might be completely eradicated by now. No—the Forsworn controlled their anger, holding it in their own two hands. It was their sword and axe, their bow and arrow—even their spells and wards.

What Vinye had done in Falinesti could not be understated, Cosette knew—but at the end of the day, she'd behaved like nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum. And Malys was almost laughable—to think that Cosette had actually fallen for that lie about an improperly cast healing spell!

Cosette grimaced. These two elves didn't know the first thing about anger, let alone knowing how to use it—how it hadn't destroyed them already was a miracle.

_That being said …_

"So," Cosette said, putting her hands on her hips, "not only do we have a renegade from one of the strongest military factions of Tamriel … but we also have a vampire who mysteriously _wasn't_ a fortnight ago." She scoffed as she glared at Malys—this was too much to take in. There was simply no way this was true.

"Oh, I _was_ a vampire," Malys corrected her. "I've been undead for much longer than you've been alive. I just didn't know it until last week."

Cosette scoffed again. "How does someone just _forget_ they're a vampire?"

"I'm not just _any_ vampire," said the Dunmer. "I'm a hybrid—part Quarra, part Volkihar. Both those clans have very strong blood in them—and they battled it out inside me. It nearly killed me, you know—I had to sleep for two hundred years just to stave off the worst of the effects. It cost me most of my memory, but I barely survived."

 _A hybrid vampire?_ Cosette wondered. She knew precious little about vampires—very few chose to make their home in the Reach—but what she did know suggested that if Malys was telling the truth, then she was very unique, and potentially very dangerous.

"How did this happen?" the Breton finally asked. She maintained a little of her voice's edge—skeptical, but not so hostile as to completely alienate Malys when she had the chance to explain herself.

"Remember when I told you how Dunmer were promiscuous by nature?" Malys told her. "It wasn't any different with me. I grew up in Suran, and when I was old enough, I started working at a place called the House of Earthly Delights. The owner put me to work as a 'special request'—I don't think I need to go into the specifics."

Cosette silently agreed—Malys' exploits of pleasure weren't the issue here.

"Then Vvardenfell erupted, and we were all driven out of our home. The few of us who survived only did so by the skin of our teeth. Those were low days for me—I made for Windhelm, but I had to give my body to an Ashlander just to get a map of the way there. By the time I found out he was a vampire from the Quarra clan, it was already too late."

Cosette noticed Malys had gripped the side of her neck very tightly as she said this, and grimaced as she put two and two together.

"I made it to Windhelm eventually, but times were tough. I had to hide myself from the rest of the city—Nords and Dunmer alike. But I still believed I could eke out a living for myself. I started selling myself again, out of an alley in the Grey Quarter of town. Business wasn't as good—the Nords would have me arrested if I ventured out of that section of Windhelm."

Cosette already suspected where this was going. "But someone ratted you out, didn't they?"

Malys didn't say anything for a while. "No one suspected anything at the time—I always operated at night, and what streetwalker doesn't? And I kept my thirst in check, too, if only just—animals aren't nearly as filling a feast as men or elves."

"But one night I had a visitor—a customer of mine had brought a friend for his first time. I still remember his face—he had this slicked-back black hair, small little black beard—and I don't know how he knew, but he knew what I was. He could see it on me, he said. I didn't fully grasp what he meant until he bit me right _here_." She rubbed the other side of her neck.

That threw Cosette for a loop. "That doesn't make sense at all. Why would a vampire bite another vampire?"

"I never had the chance to find out," Malys answered her. "When I woke up, I was practically surrounded by an angry mob—cliché torches, pitchforks, and all. Somehow, I knew that vampire had alerted the guard, and told him everything. The whole town ran me out of Windhelm that morning—even some of the other dark elves were chasing me—and I was forced to hide in a cave on the bank of the White River. That's where I slept, and that's where I woke up two hundred years later."

"And when you woke up … "

Malys nodded. "I had no idea what I was," she finished for Cosette. "I lost so much of my memory that that priest's blade couldn't tell I was undead at all."

The Breton was dumbstruck. It was the most illogical story she'd ever heard. Admittedly, she'd never experienced being a vampire firsthand, but the relationship between the body and the mind was rarely that complex. One could not live without the other—to Cosette, it was as simple as that.

So why was it, then, that she almost believed what Malys had told her?

She looked to Vinye for an explanation, before noticing that both she and Malys were looking at her with expectant expressions on their faces. Immediately, she felt her hackles rise again—she knew what they were about to ask.

They wouldn't be getting the answer they wanted.

"Well—I suppose this means you want _me_ to come clean now?" Cosette told them, her voice filled with derision, hands still on her hips.

No one spoke. Vinye and Malys traded uneasy glances with each other, before they slowly nodded at her.

Cosette made a rude noise in her throat, and spat in disgust. "Well, too bad," she said, glowering at the two elves, wishing they'd burst into flames from the sheer force of her glare. "You should have told me this a long time ago. Maybe then you'd have earned the right."

She turned on her heel, not even daring to look at them. "I'm going back out there," she said in a very final way. "I'm going to find my family, I'm going to rescue them—and you two can rot in this hellhole for all I care."

"You're what?!" Vinye was incredulous. "It's crawling with Forsworn out there! We're lucky to be alive—if it wasn't for Taron, we might all be de—!"

Cosette finally exploded. "Don't you dare talk about that damned elf again!" she snarled. "And what's it to you if there's Forsworn out there? I told you the risks of coming through the Reach—I told you that you could easily have gone home and saved yourselves the toil and trouble! But no—you just couldn't resist the thought that Arkngthamz might still be standing.

" _WELL, IT'S STANDING!_ " she burst out, whirling around at Vinye and Malys, and feeling a savage pleasure as they backed away from her in surprise. "And I hope it falls on your heads," Cosette growled at them, directing all her hatred into the next wad of phlegm she spat onto the stone floor.

She looked over her shoulder at them, and she noticed how pitiful their expressions looked—but Cosette was too angry with them to care. "At least the Forsworn are _honest_ about who they are," she finished, turning away from them, " _and_ what they do."

"And I suppose you'd know all about them, wouldn't you?"

Cosette did not immediately hear what Vinye said—her hand was just about to push against the door before the words finally made their way to her brain. That stopped her in her tracks, and her arm went slack against the metal.

"I'd answer her if I were you, _Cozy_ ," Malys added, and Cosette bristled—that _creature_ had no right to call her that name. "Vinye didn't know I was a vampire from the beginning, but it didn't take much for her to find out. If there _is_ something you're hiding, I'd wager she can read it like just another book."

"When Taron's spell staggered those Forsworn, I noticed that two of them had the same red hair you did," Vinye said, crossing her arms and speaking up before Cosette could even think to rebuff her. The Altmer's green eyes looked sharp as blades. "Now maybe that's pretty common for Bretons, but your hair's _especially_ red—and so was theirs. And it was only for a moment, so I can't be one hundred percent sure … but I'm pretty sure if I had another, longer look at their eyes, I'd see the exact same tattoos on your eyes around theirs as well."

Cosette swore under her breath—one simple glance from Vinye had been enough to crush her disguise to sand. But there was still no way in hell that the Breton would admit defeat. "Do you think I care?" she said defiantly.

"You should." Vinye's expression was unreadable. "I'm shocked enough that you're a Forsworn yourself, Cosette—but I should think that even a Forsworn would care about their own mother and father."

The Breton felt a sensation that roughly resembled a heavy weight being swung into her stomach, and all her composure and toughness were leveled with Vinye's words. _How did she know that? How?!_

"You don't know anything about my family!" Cosette tried to muster up one last rebuttal, but the elf was unmoved.

"Hair that red is a recessive trait for both men and elves alike," the Altmer went on. "The only way it can be passed down is if both parents possess that trait, and even then, there's only a chance. For all three of you to possess the exact same shade of hair isn't something you see every day. In fact, I'd wager that could only happen through … "

Vinye did not finish her sentence, but Cosette was all the more thankful for it: she knew the Ionsaithe clan was known for both its passion for bloodshed and its bright red hair. It wasn't hard to come to the conclusion that either Cosette's parents—or Cosette herself—might have been the result of inbreeding within the clan to pass both traits on to their next generation. At least Vinye had enough tact to not say anything further on the matter. If she had gone on, Cosette would likely have killed her where she stood.

" … Well, that certainly explains a few things, at any rate," Vinye finished, half to herself and staring off into space, seemingly contemplating, before turning her cold glare on Cosette. "So you're a Forsworn. Those swords on your back aren't just for show, are they?"

For a moment, Cosette wanted to spit in her face—see how many lightning bolts the Altmer could squeeze out with phlegm in her eye. But the look in Vinye's eye had changed—it wasn't entirely cold, now. It felt softer—and yet those green eyes still felt like they were piercing her like a thousand needles. Cosette would die before admitting it—but she already knew that Vinye was a shrewd elf. Attempting to wall her off to protect her identity—who she was, and had been from the beginning—would be worse than useless at this point.

And so she sighed. "I'm not a Forsworn," she eventually said, choosing her words carefully. "Not _officially_ , anyway."

"Officially?"

"Sorry." Cosette crossed her arms at Vinye. "That's all you get. Until you can prove to me that I shouldn't head back to Winterhold on my own and leave you two on your own, I'm not telling you _anything_."

"Why are you even with the College?" asked Malys. "You don't sound like you care about the place at all."

Cosette paused. That was a loaded question—how to answer it without giving anything away? "I don't really want to say," she said. "It was … _necessary_ for me to go to Winterhold."

Vinye pounced on the word. " _Necessary_ ," she mused. "Are you being _forced_ to go there?"

" _No_ ," Cosette said heatedly, and perhaps a little too quickly; she cursed under her breath for the slip-up. "I did it for my own self. I wanted to be stronger—by any means necessary, but nowhere else in the Reach could offer me what I wanted. I couldn't go back to Markarth—the guards would know me there, and I'd be back in Cidhna Mine all over again."

"So you just wanted to be the best, did you?"

"Not that simple," Cosette countered. "But sure, I'll give you that. I thought this excavation in Rkund could give me that kind of strength. If I'd known exactly what sort of nonsense this would turn into, I'd never have come along with you two at all."

The two elves looked wounded at that, and Cosette felt the ghost of a smile on her face.

And then Vinye asked, "Is that what you really think?"

It was a simple question, but it left her all the more shocked for it. _I am Cosette Ionsaithe_ , she thought.

A small, nasty little voice in the back of her head answered her. _The Ionsaithes are dead. They're never coming back!_

_I am invincible._

_No, you're not. You never wanted to be._

_I am Forsworn. I am a force, and a dream._

_So you admit you can't even think for yourself?_

_I don't care about that. I want a free home, and I would gladly die for it._

_Will you?_

_I am Ionsaithe! I am invincible!_

…

_Is that what you really think?_

…

When Cosette next spoke, it was with all the roaring anger of a forest fire. "What else am I supposed to think?!" she stormed at the elves. "That I should just _give up?!_ "

_Give up._

Cosette had heard that nasty little voice in her head again, and for a moment of time to short to be measured, a thought entered her head, and that thought rushed through her body like the north wind, and extinguished the flames of her fury. The forest fire was now little more than a sputtering candle.

That voice sounded too much like hers.

_Give up._

Cosette Ionsaithe was a Culler—someone who was not only encouraged, but _expected_ to die for the Forsworn cause. By establishing herself to be above and beyond even the most formidable of Reachmen, her mere presence was a challenge to them—a boast to each camp she'd ever infiltrated that said,

"Do you think you're ready to fight for a free home? Then _prove it_ —kill me before I kill all of you."

Cosette Ionsaithe had been told to give up her life—but no one had ever, not once in her life, told her to _give up_.

The candle flickered briefly, and Cosette jerked her head towards the elves. No, she decided. She would not give up. The Ionsaithe name and its survival, while no less important, could wait a while longer. Her mother and father had taught her everything she knew about the ways of battle—they could survive a second-rate mage and his cronies.

Which left only one other decision. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Cosette knew her duty.

And the candle finally expired—the fire inside her had been snuffed out.

"All right," Cosette sighed, finally facing Vinye and Malys. "So I admit I got my priorities a little mixed up back there. I came to Winterhold to be strong, sure—but I've had some … nice experiences along the way. Some more than others"—as images of the headless body of Orchendor, the draconic monster that had been Peryite, and numerous bodies of her fellow clansmen inside Bthardamz flashed through her mind—"but even those have been pretty life-changing."

She couldn't resist a little grin. "And let's be honest," she added, "you don't get more sisters-in-blood than you do by taking down one of the biggest and baddest Orcs in Skyrim together. So what if I got laid low for it?" She rubbed at her jaw, where Borgakh had punched her. "That was … I haven't felt that good in a long time. So … thanks for that."

Both elves breathed a sigh of relief as the thought that Cosette didn't want to kill them both finally sank in. "So is that it, then?" Malys asked. "There's no bad blood between us at all?"

Cosette's grin widened a little. "Don't get too ahead of yourself," she said daringly. "Right now, all I'm thinking about is seeing this through to the end." _And the sooner the better_ , thought the Culler—it was all she could do to dispel any thoughts of her family from her mind. "But don't worry—I'll make it up to you. By the time we're done exploring Arkngthamz, you'll know everything there is to know about who I am and what I do."

The ground suddenly rumbled, nearly sending the three mages to the floor. The tremors continued for several seconds, and then disappeared as suddenly as they'd come.

Vinye rose from the cracked floor. "Then we should get started," she observed, "while we still _have_ an Arkngthamz to explore."

Cosette nodded, and tightened the lashings that kept her twin swords in place. "Let's go."

Malys got to her feet, and the mages began their descent into the crumbling ruin.


	15. XIV

XIV

"There's one thing I still don't get," Malys mused out loud as they made their way down the corridor. The seemingly endless hallway had finally ended in front of a small cliff; a huge column had collapsed, however, forming a rudimentary bridge over the chasm. "Why attack those Thalmor at all? Isn't that the exact opposite of trying to hide yourself?"

"It didn't always start out that way," said Vinye, as they negotiated their descent. "When I came to Skyrim, I learned the Thalmor had more of a presence here than in Cyrodiil. At first, I was terrified. I thought they might be looking for me—that somehow they knew what had happened in Valenwood. One day, I ran into a Dominion patrol on my way through the Rift—and I felt that feeling again, same as in Falinesti. Before I knew it, they were all dead, and I could smell my lightning in the air.

"After that, I was never afraid again," the Altmer went on. "But the threat of retaliation was still very real. So from that moment on, I made every effort to erase myself from the Dominion's memory. As far as the Thalmor are aware, there _is_ no Vinye. Vinye never existed to them—and if any more Thalmor patrols ever saw her, then _they_ wouldn't exist anymore, either. By now, I'd wager the Dominion is just chasing a ghost right now."

" … _Turn back …_ "

Cosette, who had been leading the group over the crumbled pillar, nearly tumbled over the bridge and into the stream below in surprise at the sound of the unexpected voice. It was next to silent compared with the constant hum of Dwarven machinery, but was incongruous enough to stand out from all the other sounds of the ruined place.

With some difficulty, the Breton clambered to her feet. "No one else heard that, right?" she asked the two elves tentatively.

Malys looked her confusion. "I heard it," confirmed the vampire. "But I still don't know what … "

Vinye, meanwhile, looked deeply concerned. "Did someone beat us here?"

"No," said Malys after a while. "There's no one else nearby but us." Vinye and Cosette looked at her skeptically. "Trust the vampire," she added, a little irritably. "If anyone else was in here, I'd have already smelled them."

"I've heard that before." Vinye had crossed her arms. "Before I came to Winterhold, I passed through Ivarstead for a day or so. There's a barrow right on the doorstep of the settlement, and up until a few years ago, a lot of people swore blind that it was haunted—strange noises, ghostly apparitions, everything. Then someone actually had the nerve to go inside—and it all turned out to be a hoax. The elf behind the whole thing had created a potion that gave him a ghostly look. A little bit of acting on his part, and he had free rein to loot the tomb of whatever he wanted."

Cosette was not convinced. "That was just one time and place, though," she told Vinye. "Maybe you're not wrong, but something tells me this ought to be checked out at the very least. Let's move on."

And so they did. Past the destroyed column, the corridor looked much the worse for wear. The walls and floor were cracked and uneven; several places were even overgrown with ferns and other vegetation. The remains of several automatons were strewn about the hallway as they moved on. Malys pointed out a dwarven sphere that appeared to have been crushed by a loose rock; a glance upward revealed that this rock was actually a piece of the ceiling.

 _What happened here?_ Cosette thought in awe as they walked past the sphere. Taron had mentioned something about earthquakes in this area—but to wreck something as sturdy as a Dwarven ruin must have been the doing of an earthquake like no other. The strength wasn't just unthinkable—it was _impossible_.

A tremor this strong would have left its mark on the surrounding landscape, Cosette knew, and nowhere nearby would have been safe. Reachwind Eyrie would have toppled from the quakes—and Dushnikh Yal would have been _leveled_. Even Markarth, as strongly built as it was, would have sustained some measure of damage.

_What in the Old Gods' name happened here?!_

" _Please, turn back … before it's too late …_ "

"There it is again," Malys said. "It's louder now. Do you think we're getting close to something?"

Vinye looked wary. "I'm more worried that that _something_ is getting closer to _us_." A few sparks snaked over her fingers, and she indicated that the others ought to be on alert as well.

The hallway was ending now, opening up into a gigantic space. Cosette could hear the sound of rushing water. _A waterfall? Here?_

Vinye stopped in her tracks at the sight of what lay before them. "By the Eight … " she gasped.

It was absolute, unparalleled devastation. In its day, the space would have made for a truly massive great hall—perhaps even more so than the great hall of Rkund. But now, a huge cleft in the earth had split it in two, and foamy white water churned in the gap it had left. Above this, the sky was still visible, and the sun still shone—and birds could be heard faintly chirping in the cliffs. Automatons littered the entire space—Cosette thought she could even see the massive arm of a centurion buried under a large pile of debris. She sensed this must have been the epicenter of one of those earthquakes—there was no other way the earth could have been so thoroughly destroyed.

Even as they looked on, there was a rumble from below—stronger than any they'd yet experienced, and enough to send the mages off balance and onto the cracked floor. Malys was able to drag Cosette from her perch on the brink before the Breton might have fallen into the chasm. An enormous pillar, already half-broken, was not so lucky; the entire mass of stone and golden metal was dislodged, and the roiling waters below swallowed it up completely.

Cosette swallowed. "Wow." There was simply nothing else for her to say; the display of the power of nature had left her dumbstruck. "How are we going to get past _that?_ "

"We should have brought some rope," Vinye thought out loud. "I'm not sure if there _is_ a safe way to cross this."

"There might be." Malys was pointing down and to their left. Another pillar had collapsed, and Cosette thought she saw a body crushed between it and a small outcropping of rock. It might work as another bridge, the Breton mused, but the whole thing looked like it could topple into the rapids at any moment.

"What are you still doing here?"

The voice had come from right behind Cosette—and in the space of a second, she'd unhooked one of her Forsworn blades, spun around in a circle, and neatly sliced through the neck of the spectral figure that had appeared directly behind her. There was a hint of something female, then a final moan, and the apparition disappeared.

There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the roar of the water below, before Vinye finally spoke up. "What _was_ that?"

Cosette did not lower her blade. "I don't know," she answered her. "But I think we can rule out that 'ghost potion' idea. I guess this place really _was_ haunted."

"Did that make you feel better?"

All three mages whirled around at the sound of the voice. The ghostly figure was there again—Cosette's Forsworn blade had not dispelled her at all, although she seemed sensible enough not to stand so closely to someone willing to decapitate a human being without a moment's hesitation.

Now that they could see her more clearly, the ghost was indeed female—a Nord, too, still clad in her steel armor as well, and a solid-looking bow was slung over her shoulder. If Cosette looked closely at her, the ghost had the same sorrowful appearance that most ghosts did—but there was a hint of irritability as well, one that the Breton suspected might not be entirely her own fault.

Nonetheless, she answered the ghost's question. "I was kind of hoping it would," she said, attempting a jaunty smile before turning back to Vinye. "Well, there you have it—this place is haunted to the rafters."

"I wouldn't say that," said the ghost. "Everything and everyone that used to live in here—well, they don't even have _this_." She indicated her spectral form. "But I can tell you that Arkngthamz isn't dead yet."

"You know about Arkngthamz, too?" Vinye was curious. "Who are you?"

"The name's Katria," said the ghost. "I'm … well, I _was_ an adventurer. Dwarven ruins were my forte for nigh on twenty years. I was on the trail of something big. It led me here, and … I didn't make it." She glanced toward the fallen pillar momentarily. Cosette thought her eyes lingered on the body beneath it for just a little while, and a sudden thought sprang into her mind.

Vinye had the same expression—though not for a different reason. "Katria … I know that name," she realized.

"Oh, so you read the book, didn't you?" Katria said scornfully. _"The Aetherium Wars"?_ Well, let me just set the record straight for you: Every word written in that book is a _lie_."

"Excuse me?" Vinye bristled at Katria's sudden abrasive demeanor. Cosette tensed up.

"That was _my_ theory, you know," the dead Nord raved on. " _My_ research, _my_ life's work—all of it, lost! Stolen by my own damned apprentice!"

The earth rumbled again at this last, and for a very, very brief moment, Cosette wondered if Katria's rage could somehow be capable of causing all these earthquakes. The thought was nonsensical, but it still made her shudder.

And that was nothing compared to Katria's revelation. Cosette had always known there was something … _off_ about that Dunmer wizard from the moment she'd first set eyes on him. Like he was hiding something beneath all that enthusiasm … but this was completely unexpected.

Vinye, meanwhile, was eyeing Katria with interest in spite of her own shock. "Taron Dreth was your apprentice?" she mused out loud. "He failed to mention that."

Katria rounded upon her. "Taron's still alive?" she hissed. "Damn it. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised—but the thought of him peddling knowledge that was never his just turns my stomach. I wanted him dead for it, too; I sold everything I'd ever looted from my adventuring, and I used the money to send hired killers after him. I even promised them extra if they showed me a body. I even went as far as … "

And suddenly Katria became silent, and her anger ebbed. "It doesn't matter. It's hopeless now. I died here, just like everyone else—just like all the others who've had nothing but Aetherium on their minds. So I'm not going to ask you again—turn back. Leave this place while you still can … before it claims you, too."

"No."

Cosette and Malys turned to look at Vinye. The high elf had set her jaw, and there was a grim look to her face that she'd never seen before. Sparks were dancing in Vinye's green eyes, and even over her fingers as well.

Cosette felt apprehensive. _Is Vinye … angry?_

No, she immediately thought. That wasn't anger at all; this feeling Cosette was getting from Vinye was like their ride back from Rkund—right before she had methodically slaughtered an entire patrol of Thalmor.

Vinye wasn't angry. She was _furious_.

"We've come too far to turn back now," growled the Altmer. "I'm not going to let something like this stand in my way—I'm not going to let it stand at _all_."

Cosette had a feeling Vinye was not talking about the Aetherium.

Katria, for her part, merely heaved a sigh. "I'm not going to talk you out of it, am I?" she said. "You remind me of when I was younger—still alive, excited … before all that nonsense over revenge and restoring my good name.

"But that isn't the same thing as surviving," Katria added warningly, before stepping towards the pillar that bridged the rapids below. "The treasury's located at the summit of the ruin. It was where I was headed before … well. Anyway, if you want to make it there in one piece, you're going to need my help. Are you really sure you want to do this?"

Vinye grit her teeth. " _Yes, we are_."

No one raised any objections, and so all four women followed her down the pillar, and deeper into Arkngthamz.

* * *

Almost immediately, Cosette's intuition about the body under the pillar turned out to be right. And Katria was not happy about it.

"This was where I fell," she'd commented only seconds ago, almost as offhand as if she was discussing the matter over a pint. "Feels like a long time ago."

Now, though, as they reached the crushed remains of her body, some of Katria's anger had returned. "Damn it—this pillar must have fallen after I did," she cursed. "Poor Zephyr didn't stand a chance."

"Zephyr?"

"My bow," Katria explained, patting the spectral dwarven weapon slung across her back. "It was well-named, too—even the gods would be hard-pressed to make a faster bow than Zephyr. I loved that bow like it was my own son, and maybe that's why I'm lucky enough to carry a shade of it with me. But that's the least of our worries; I had a journal, and I wrote down everything I could on it … but the fall ruined that, too. We'd have needed that just to reach the summit, never mind the climb back down!"

She sighed. "Looks like we'll have to wing this one," she groaned. "I can tell you what I know about this place, but it's skin and bones compared to what was in my journal. First, though," she added, turning to the mages, "who are you, and why are you here? You don't look like ordinary mages to me."

Cosette spoke up before Vinye had a chance. "We're with the College of Winterhold," she explained. "Initially, we were in talks with an elf called Solyn—he wanted to seal up all these Dwarven relics because he thought they were too dangerous, and in return, he'd pay the College well. But then, our Arch-Mage canceled the deal, and now we're giving all this stuff to _him_ instead—Aetherium and all."

"Solyn … " Katria mused. "I don't know who that is—Taron never mentioned anything about a 'Solyn.'"

" _No_ one knows who he is," Vinye was heard to say, but Katria had already begun talking over her.

"So how did a runaway, a vampire, and a Forsworn manage to get themselves into this mess?" asked the ghost.

Cosette was stunned. _What? How could she possibly know this?!_

"Don't look so shocked," Katria went on, catching Cosette's stricken expression—along with those of Vinye and Malys as well. "You three argue loud enough to wake the dead— _literally_ , as it turns out." She laughed a little at her own joke. "Just because the dwarves have been gone for four thousand years doesn't mean no one's watching you in here."

Now everyone was staring at Cosette now. "I think that's your cue, Cozy," Malys said to her. "You promised you'd tell us everything about yourself before we left this ruin."

Cosette growled under her breath, but deep down, she knew Malys was right. She took a deep breath through her nose before launching into her story.

"I'm what's called a Forsworn Culler," she explained as the women made their way across the remainder of the pillar, leaving Katria's body behind. "We're a secret order of the Forsworn; we answer to no one, not even each other. We were created specifically to make the Forsworn unstoppable—by killing as many of them as we could."

The elves' eyes widened. "Why?" Vinye was confused. "That doesn't make sense to me—wouldn't that drive you extinct—either these Cullers or the Forsworn?"

"As long as there are Nords still living in the Reach, there will _always_ be Forsworn," Cosette said, setting her jaw. "Even if a Culler infiltrates and kills an entire camp of Forsworn, that camp will still rebuild—and the Forsworn who live inside it will adapt, and they will be prepared for another Culler to attack them. As the Cullers kill more of our own kind, the Forsworn grow stronger, and so do we. It's an endless cycle—and I wanted to break it."

They entered a long, cylindrical tunnel. Pipes lined the length of the corridor, and the floor was a grating made of more of that Dwemer metal. "Watch your step here," Katria cautioned them. "This place has been pretty unstable since the quake."

Malys shook her head. "I still don't understand how this Culler idea works—I can understand where you got the name 'Culler'—getting rid of the weak to maintain your strength, after all—but surely that has to have some kind of drawback!"

"My family name, Ionsaithe, means 'invincible,'" Cosette reminded her. "I told you once that I wanted to be invincible, Malys—but that I _didn't_ want to be, either. Cullers have free rein to go where they will to do their duty, whenever they please. I wanted to be stronger than any of them—the Nords, the Forsworn, the Cullers—everyone. But what they taught me just wasn't enough. So I posed as a novice, and I made my way to Winterhold to learn as much as I could. With that knowledge, I'd be deadlier than all the Forsworn's forces combined."

"Watch out!" Katria's sudden shout broke Cosette's train of thought again, and for good reason: two of the pipes had burst open, revealing themselves to be charging ports for a pair of dwarven spiders. These spiders now skittered along the grating towards the four adventurers.

Vinye was ready for them—but so was Katria. Zephyr was indeed a very fast bow, Cosette thought in grudging admiration; in the time it took for Vinye to target one of the spiders with a lightning bolt, Katria had drawn an arrow, nocked it on Zephyr, pulled back its cord, and let fly at the second spider. Both constructs were disabled almost simultaneously, earning Vinye an impressed look from the ghost.

"You're pretty fast," Katria commented.

Cosette scoffed as Vinye blushed, failing to cover up her own pride. "I have to be," said the elf. "When you've been running from the Dominion as long as I have, you have to learn to make the first move, and _fast_. That's why I use lightning all the time—there's no faster magic out there."

"There's a place you can catch your breath up ahead," Katria offered, pointing to the end of the corridor. "We'll need every bit of it we can spare to keep going."

Now that the distraction of the two _animunculi_ had passed, the topic inevitably drifted back to Cosette's relationship with the Forsworn. Cosette saw the elves trade glances, obviously worried.

When they sat down in a corner of the hallway, Malys finally spoke up, and the vampire's tone suggested she was choosing her words carefully. " … What happens when a Culler is killed?" she asked.

"Then whatever camp that killed them is ready to drive out the Nords," Cosette said. She tasted the familiar tone of fanatical zeal in her words. "They'll be ready to fight, and they'll be ready to win—all the Cullers have to do is _die_ for them."

She saw their disbelieving faces, and felt a twinge of anger. "I don't think you understand just how much I want that moment to happen. I would see my own blood spilled if it meant purging the Reach of the Nords—of the _false blood_ ," Cosette said through clenched teeth. "I would _gladly_ give my life for the good of the Forsworn—I've wanted to for _years_."

"But why?" Vinye looked pleading. "Why would you join these Cullers? Didn't you know what that meant for you when you did?"

Cosette smiled back at her. "Hasn't there been _one_ thing in your life you'd give _your_ life for, Vinye? Just one?"

She resisted the urge to smirk at the wide-eyed, slack-jawed Altmer as she paused; Cosette wagered Vinye looked just like she had when the elf had deduced both the Breton's parentage and affiliation.

"How did you join them?" Katria wanted to know, finally speaking up before Vinye could recover. "What do you have to do to get noticed by a 'secret order' like this?"

Cosette had to think for a moment and collect her thoughts before she could answer the question—it would take a while to recollect all the details of _that_ particular history. "After the War of the Bend'r-mahk, most of the Ionsaithe Clan fled into Skyrim," she said. "We lived in the Reach in peace, and my clan didn't like that one bit—the only peace we can accept is _war_. So we rebelled—and we persuaded all the other Reachmen to rebel as well. We rose up against the Nords, and we drove them out of the Reach.

"That was thirty years ago," she sighed, her voice sullen. "Then, Ulfric came along, and he butchered so many of us that Markarth ran red with their blood. The few of us that didn't get shouted to shreds got thrown in Cidhna Mine, left to rot to death in there. The Ionsaithe clan has been part of the Forsworn ever since.

"The Reachmen saw our clan as an asset—they believed our vicious nature should be a paragon of the Forsworn. So they rounded us up, and isolated us from all the other camps so thoroughly that over the next ten years, the Ionsaithe name became a myth, a fairy tale that would come true in the worst possible way. My clan became the first Cullers—and they raised me to be a Culler from birth as well. They taught me how to shoot a bow, and to wield both blade and spell like a master ever since I could walk. And a few years ago, I finally got the chance to join them. All I had to do was break Cidhna Mine wide open … and unleash the king of the Forsworn."

"The … _king_?" Malys' question was more out of skepticism than uneasiness.

"That's what we all called him," said Cosette. "Madanach, the King of Rags. Thonar Silver-Blood—the Jarl's brother—had Madanach imprisoned within the mine in secret, and as a result, Thonar had complete control over the Forsworn. The little piss-stain reduced us to thugs—we were nothing more than _animals_ meant to intimidate and kill anyone that kept Thonar from getting his slimy hands on more silver. The Cullers told me to change all that, and help Madanach escape—with the promise of me being a Culler myself if I survived."

Vinye narrowed her eyes. "So that story you told us about a false assault charge … ?"

" _That_ , I can tell you was true—every word of it," Cosette said. "It's easier to break _out_ of a prison than _into_ it—especially if that prison is Cidhna Mine—and for a while, I didn't know how I would find my way in there. But the Stormcloaks acted like such racist idiots that they ended up solving that problem for me. They threw me in there, with no promise I'd ever get out again, and I finally got to see Madanach with my own eyes."

Cosette sighed wistfully as she recollected the story. "All those stories I'd heard … all the people he'd had killed—all that time, I'd expected the King of Rags to be wearing a little more than … well, _rags_ ," she said. "Prison hadn't been kind to him or his band. Most of them were half-dead because the guards had been working them so hard—but not Madanach. When I saw him for the first time, he was a corpse—nothing but skin, bone, and dirty hair that was still as silver as the stuff we were being forced to mine. But I saw past all that, and I saw that glare in his eye instead … and I _knew_ then that his dream hadn't died with his body … "

* * *

_It was the only time in her life she could remember crying._

" _Losing your little girl and your future—just for talking to the most hated man in the Reach," said the skeletal old man in front of her, sitting in his prison, still attending to his writing as if it was all a formality compared to the hell he had suffered here. "Imagine hearing a story like Braig's again. Then again, and again—each time a different family, each time a different injustice. You remind me of how … removed I've been from this struggle. I shouldn't be here—my brethren and I should be in the hills, fighting for our cause."_

_He put down his quill, and pushed aside the parchment full of his indecipherable writing. The sigh that Madanach heaved was that of a man who'd been tied up, put on display, and beaten—body, mind and soul—for as long as he could remember …_

" _I had Markarth, you know," spoke the King of Rags. "_ _My men and I drove the Nords out. We had won … or so we thought. Their retribution was swift. I was captured, quickly tried, and sentenced to death by a pathetic mockery of a court … but my execution never came. Thonar Silver-Blood stopped it. He wanted the Forsworn at his beck and call, that I would point their rage at his enemies and spare his allies._

" _Like puppets," she realized. That in and of itself was distasteful enough, but … "Controlled by a Nord, of all the dishonorable … How could you live this way?" She was quieter now, more sympathetic—no longer the sharp, lethal blade she liked to think of herself. Braig had merely blunted her, but Madanach had broken her._

" _It wasn't easy," he said. "But I did, and I obeyed him. It was humiliating at first, I'll grant you that, but I knew Thonar would let his guard down eventually—so I played the part of his loyal lapdog, and all the while, I hoped and waited for the moment when he could trust that I was finally under his control—under_ Nord _control."_

_She looked in his eyes, deep-set in a face that seemed half-ready to tear right off his skull, and the eyes blazed with the promise of swift and most terrible vengeance …_

_And she_ knew _._

" _What can I do?" she heard herself asking, as though from very far away. "Tell me what I can do, and I promise … I will promise that the stones of Markarth will be stained with their blood for all time."_

_Madanach's wrinkled skin cracked and peeled as he curled his lips in a rare smile. "Very well."_

* * *

" … I'd always sympathized with the Forsworn," Cosette told them, "but Madanach was the final tipping point. Later that day, I broke him out of Cidhna Mine, along with everyone loyal to him—and we made sure that Thonar paid _dearly_ for turning the Forsworn into his pets. Madanach killed him personally—he beheaded him in front of his own wife." _Just like they'd beheaded Braig's daughter in front of_ him, she thought.

She felt her eyes mist over at the memory. Cosette hadn't been there herself to see Thonar's demise, but Madanach had told her the details with such gleeful gusto that even she had been more than a little unnerved.

"And that was that," she finished. "The Forsworn got their leader back, and I became what I'd trained to be since I could walk. I came to Winterhold so that the Forsworn could be stronger than ever before.

"Because they will be coming back," she added, steeling her nerves and raising her voice a little to drive her point home. "One day, we _will_ retake the Reach for ourselves—and nothing is going to change that."

Before, Vinye had listened to Cosette's tale with only a minor amount of interest. The knowledge of a secret order within perhaps the strongest dissident faction in Skyrim—and more to the point, its aims and desires—were almost as incredible as they were inconceivable. But at the same time, though, the novelty of the concept soon wore off; a secret order that killed its own people to become stronger, Vinye knew, wasn't liable to last for very long, and neither were any of its goals. However, Cosette's speech about Cidhna Mine and this Madanach person had changed the Altmer's view on her completely.

 _Here_ was a woman who showed complete and total devotion to a cause, who would give her all—her body, her mind, and even her life—to see that cause come to fruition. And though the _cause_ might have been less than admirable, this alone still made Cosette no different from Vinye. For the Breton had somehow known how intent the Altmer was on the pursuit and dissemination of knowledge and truth, and in this, perhaps, she had found someone that approximated a kindred spirit in _her_.

As for Taron … any respect Vinye had had for the Dunmer had been crushed to sand once Katria had called him out as a fraud. She had dealt with plenty of people like him during her time in Cyrodiil—and had harbored a great resentment for lies because of them. No matter how disguised as the truth a lie could be, it was still a lie at the core. That was why Vinye was determined to set this right, and quickly—before Taron could peddle anymore of his _lies_.

"I've got no hold in this Forsworn business, Cosette," she told the Breton, "but right now, I think recovering this Aetherium ought to take precedence. You did say you wanted to become stronger, after all. Maybe when this business is said and done, you can petition the Arch-Mage to give you one of those artifacts, hmm?" She smiled. "I can see a piece like Sunder fitting quite well with you."

Cosette's expression was unreadable. "We'll see," she eventually said. "And I'd pick a side if I were you, Vinye—while you still can. There's no such thing as innocence when it comes to the Forsworn—and there's no such thing as a bystander either. To Markarth, you're either guilty—or you're dead."

On that grim note, the Breton stood up and stretched, popping several of her joints in the process. "Are we all set, then?" she asked the rest of the group.

A murmur of general assent answered her. "All right," said the Breton. "Let's move on."

* * *

Progress was slow; the room they were resting in had been almost completely submerged because of a ruptured water pipe. It was Katria who provided a way out: another thick pipe wound its way up and along the wall, and ended on a balcony that led to another long corridor. The four women had to climb along this pipe with some difficulty—the smooth metal made finding a foothold treacherous.

"What exactly happened to this place?" Malys asked her.

Katria didn't answer for a moment. "It wasn't always like this," she replied. "When I first came here, Arkngthamz was the best-preserved Dwemer city I'd ever laid eyes on. Until, well … the earthquake. Now, we'd be lucky if there's a single room intact … never mind the treasury."

Vinye still felt apprehensive. The way that Katria had been hesitating in her speech led her to believe that there was something she wasn't telling her. "Is there anything we ought to be aware of in here?"

"It's a dwarven city—pick your poison," said the ghost. "No, but really, it'd be easier to list what _isn't_ a danger in this place now. The earthquake that wrecked this place was a big one—every now and again, there are still major aftershocks. And that's not getting into the deadly rapids and unstable ground, the massive chasms and lethal falls—oh, and guess what moved in and called the place home, too?"

It was only for a moment, but the memory of the odor of a very familiar egg flitted through Vinye's mind, and instantly she felt as though her stomach had dissolved. _Oh no_. "Tell me it isn't the Falmer," she groaned.

Malys nearly fell off the pipe. "What?!" she exclaimed.

"Fair enough," Katria shrugged. "I won't tell you."

"I thought the Falmer were gone," Cosette said. "The Nords didn't treat them any differently than they did the Forsworn. Drove them near to extinction, so I was told."

"You were told a lot less than you ought to know," Katria said disapprovingly. "And for your sake, I hope we don't run into any along the way—because the real danger here isn't the Falmer."

 _The_ … real _danger?_ Vinye thought. "And what is it, then?"

Again, Katria didn't immediately say anything, and that was a major tell to Vinye. "We'll talk about that when the time comes … if it comes," she said cryptically.

Finally the pipe ended, and the women leapt down from its length. The debris below them was soft enough to where they could use it as a decent cushion from that height, and they continued on at length.

"What's that noise?" Malys spoke up—there was indeed a strange sound coming from ahead of them—a metallic _hiss-thunk_ noise that sounded like some kind of piston. It was intermittent, only once every handful of seconds, but it was accompanied by the sounds of a gate constantly opening and closing.

The gate in question now loomed before them. The distance beyond was obscured by steam, but every so often, Vinye could make out a strange shape in the pipes beyond—a fanlike contraption that joined two pipes. Every so often, that odd little device would jump— _hiss-thunk_ —along the length of the pipe and stay at its apex, and until it made its return trip downward— _hiss-thunk_ —the gate would either stay open or closed. It reminded Vinye of the valves inside a heart.

"The dwarves called it a kinetic resonator," Katria explained. "They're a pretty rare find in the ruins throughout Skyrim—you see them a little more often with the clans that settled down in Solstheim. This resonator's just a big, fancy lever—just give them enough force, and they'll do … whatever the Dwemer designed them to do."

She demonstrated this by walking through the gate as soon as it opened up again, and firing an arrow right at one of the propeller-like blades. This time, when the resonator jumped upward— _hiss-thunk_ —the door did not close with it, and Katria bade the others follow her inside.

The room within was small, and dominated by a single massive gear that was thicker than Vinye was tall. The steam inside was so thick that it was impossible to see any further than a few feet in front of them. However, it was just enough to see a second "kinetic resonator" across from the first one. Cosette activated it with a simple burst of flame— _hiss-thunk_ —and an adjacent gate yawned open, allowing both the steam and the adventurers a way out.

Unfortunately, it also allowed the air from outside in with them, and _this_ air smelled horribly familiar to Vinye—like those nasty egg sacs in Raldbthar.

Katria confirmed the Altmer's grim hypothesis. "Falmer up ahead," she said tersely, and quietly enough that the words were nearly indistinguishable from the hiss of steam. Silently, she drew out Zephyr and nocked an arrow, and the three mages brought their magic to bear.

True to Katria's warning, two Falmer were indeed perched on the staircase around the next corner. Cosette swore under her breath in disgust as she finally saw the twisted results of the Dwemer's meddling with the snow elves for the first time. Malys, at Katria's insistence, clapped a hand over the Breton's mouth to silence her.

But as Vinye had learned in Raldbthar, the ears and noses of the Falmer had compensated quite well for their blindness, unfortunately. Both guards had definitely heard something out of the ordinary with Cosette's muted outburst, and they instantly became alert, drawing out their crude, insectoid weapons.

Katria wasted no time in downing the first lookout—Zephyr's arrow was straight, true, and inside the Falmer's toothy maw before he knew what had happened. Cosette, who had apparently still yet to recover from the shock and revulsion of the encounter, wiped out the second with a fireball so intensely hot that the cave-elf was little more than ash when the smoke had cleared. The noise and force of the explosion drew the attention of a third Falmer from the room beyond; this one was tougher, and it took a half-dozen or so ice spikes from Malys to finally bring him down.

Cosette shuddered again as she saw the eyeless face of the Falmer Malys had killed. "Ugh—that is disgusting."

"You'll be getting to know them real well before long," Katria said ominously. "Damn things are like flies. No matter how many Falmer you kill, there always seems to be more of them."

They climbed the stairs to reach the other side of the split chamber where they had originally located Katria. The magnitude of the destruction that this pace had undergone was even more unbelievable from this angle.

"Quite a sight, huh?" Katria commented on the view. "It was even more impressive before it all fell to pieces."

They continued moving along the fissure that divided Arkngthamz, which was wider, longer and deeper than the mages had anticipated. Past here, there were very little ruins, if any at all, and for a very good reason; Katria had been right about the unstable ground being a danger in this place. A piece of the ceiling broke off as they traversed the edge of the chasm, smashing much too close to Malys for her comfort. And to top it all off, the cliffs were still infested with Falmer.

Once, two of them squeezed out from cracks that Vinye swore blind were too small to have fit a child inside. One bombarded them with a constant stream of ice, while the other got up close and personal with an axe that looked like it had been made from the pincer of some giant insect. Both met their end by Cosette's hands—the mage was dispatched with another fireball that left nothing of the Falmer from the waist up, and the axe-wielder was drawn and quartered by the Forsworn blade in her other hand within a matter of seconds. The Breton stepped over his severed arms—one still holding onto the clawed axe for dear life—and kicked the decapitated head into the rapids, where it was swallowed up in an instant.

"What the hell are those things?" the Breton finally asked. "You say they're called the Falmer?"

"That's right," Katria answered. "Back in the Merethic Era, the snow elves razed the ancient Nord city of Saarthal, the first human settlement in ancient Skyrim. Nobody's quite agreed on why—some scholars suggest there was an artifact of immense power within the city, but most agree that the Falmer were afraid of the Nords, and what they might become. At any rate, the Night of Tears was a great loss of life—but it was the catalyst for something far more terrible.

"Ysgramor—who went on to become the first High King of Skyrim—took his Five Hundred Companions, and sailed south from Atmora to Skyrim, and he drove the snow elves out of the province for good. It was assumed by many that the Falmer were driven extinct as a result. But the Falmer survived—they went underground, and sought refuge with the dwarves … however, the dwarves betrayed them. The Falmer were … changed, somehow, and got mutated into their slaves. No one's ever been sure how, but thousands of years on, this is the result. They're nothing more than animals now—completely feral, left to breed like roaches in the wake of the Dwemer."

Cosette looked sick, and her voice was soft as she digested Katria's words. "So they're just like me … just like the Forsworn … "

Katria gave her a strange look. "I know a thing or two about the Forsworn, young miss," she said, "and you ought to count your blessings while you still have fingers to count. I'm not going to make any apologies for what my ancestors did—the past is in the past. But the way I see it, you're right—they both have something in common."

"A short stick up their arse?" Cosette grumbled.

"More than that," replied Katria. "They _survived_."

The revelation left Cosette in thoughtful, though not entirely comfortable, silence for some time.

* * *

The chasm took them past another set of crumbling ruins, as well as a massive golden bust of a dwarven face submerged in the rapids—almost as large as the single gear they'd passed earlier. A rather large chest was inside these ruins, and tantalizingly—tortuously—close as well, but there appeared to be no other way inside the corridor; collapsed pillars blocked every way in, and so the four of them had no choice but to move on.

More Falmer awaited them as they progressed deeper along the chasm's edge. Cosette was no longer eradicating them out of sheer disgust, to Vinye's surprise—whatever Katria had said to her must have impacted her more severely than she'd thought. It was left to the others, then, to clean up this new infestation.

Vinye burned a hole through one of the Falmer, who had been hanging back at a safe distance to snipe them with a bow and arrow—but not safe enough from Vinye's lightning. Katria picked off a second on the other side of the ledge; he overbalanced, and toppled over the cliff, where his shrieking was lost in the raging rapids. Malys was much less clean and precise—she was not even bothering with a one-shot-one-kill approach to these Falmer. Nevertheless, Vinye had to appreciate how she flitted about like a shadow towards her target—a mage firing frost and lightning at anything that so much as moved—wrapped her vampiric body around her, hissing like a snake, before slicing the Falmer to pieces with the icy blades that formed on her fingers.

"I thought vampires were supposed to be more … _cultured_ ," Cosette remarked, having finally broken out of her lapse in concentration by Malys' brutal assault.

"I spent the last two hundred years trying to stave off madness," Malys shot back. "I didn't have time to learn about the table manners of a bloodsucker. I don't think either the Quarra _or_ the Volkihar are known for their culture, anyway," she added with a shrug.

"Wait," Vinye cut in, holding up a hand. "I hear something up ahead—some kind of … _clicking_ noise. Listen."

Everyone listened. True to Vinye's suspicion, there was indeed a rapid series of clicks coming from a part of the chasm they'd yet to explore. Malys' already pale face lost all color, and Katria looked apprehensive. Vinye couldn't blame them—she'd heard those exact same clicking noises in Raldbthar.

"Chaurus," Katria groaned, and Vinye took that to be their name. "Of course there'd be a nest here. Where there's Falmer, there's chaurus not far behind. We need to be very careful—the Falmer use them as sentries, to sense anything their ears and noses can't."

"Chaurus?" Cosette didn't look too happy.

"Big damn bugs," Malys spat. "I had to fight one on my way out of this cave in the Rift—the same one where I found out I was a vampire. It was about the size of a horse—killed and ate my guide, and nearly did the same to me. Katria's not messing around here, are you?"

Katria shook her head silently. She strung an arrow on Zephyr, and the ghost bade them follow her very slowly, and very quietly.

The clicking noises were growing louder, but so was the water; they were passing a very deep pool fed by upwards of half a dozen waterfalls. This was the origin of the rapids, Vinye noticed offhandedly; the giant crack in the earth that they'd been climbing seemed to end here.

But now, Katria was directing them towards a small fissure in the rock—Vinye had to bend over to squeeze inside. The clicking here was louder than ever.

"Anything moves," Katria whispered, "kill it on sight. Better adventurers than me have been chomped on by a chaurus in the past. And their venom's three times worse than a frostbite spider's, too—I've seen that black stuff they spit eat right through plate armor."

Almost too soon, the fissure ended, and the women were greeted with a rush of damp, musty air. Bioluminescent egg sacs dotted the cave beyond, and their sickly blue-green light framed a single Falmer tent. The Falmer himself was standing guard at one end of the cave. A small chaurus—small only by the standards of the specimens Vinye had seen in Raldbthar; this chaurus was roughly the size of a large dog—stood to his left, clawing at the ground with its spiny dark legs, occasionally snapping its mandibles at thin air, as though the oppressive humidity could be ensnared in its ugly maw. Vinye noticed them for only a moment, because her attention was suddenly glued on the holding pen opposite her—where rested a truly hideous sight.

Other chaurus were there, yes—young ones, not yet the killing machines she'd seen ripping the arm off a dwarven centurion—but there was also a pair of cocoons within the pen, just barely her height. Vinye guessed the result of this metamorphosis was hovering several feet above the ground in front of her—two spindly mantis-like creatures, each with a pair of huge, jagged pincers for arms. From her distance, Vinye could see something of the chaurus in its appearance and hardened carapace, but very little else. It wasn't unlike the resemblance between a caterpillar and a butterfly.

She chanced a look back at Cosette. The Breton's doughy face had lost all color to it at the sight of the repulsive bugs. A cold sweat had broken on her skin, and the way she was twitching told Vinye that she was either fighting every impulse to turn and run—or to fill every nook and cranny of this cave with mage-fire.

If this was the matured form of a chaurus, Vinye honestly couldn't blame her for looking disgusted—that thing needed to be her first priority. So it was that she raised her hands, brought them together, and blasted a huge lightning bolt at the nearest insect. It hit the monster full in the thorax, flash-burning one wing into iridescent ribbons and sending the insect into a screeching tizzy. The shocks rebounded through its body, and into most of the young chaurus, turning them into piles of yellow-white mush, which were promptly scattered every which way by the flying chaurus' death throes.

There was no way this didn't attract attention, and sure enough, Vinye noticed the Falmer lunge for her from above, while his pet chaurus came at her from the side. The former was an easy enough target; she dodged the cave elf's attack with inches to spare, and his snarl of primal rage turned into a scream of pain as Vinye unhooked Kinsbane from her belt, and used the elven dagger to cut into the Falmer's ribcage from shoulder to hip. The Falmer fell to the ground, and was quickly finished off by Katria and a well-aimed arrow to the neck.

The surviving chaurus, meanwhile, were giving Malys and Cosette a tough time. Concentrating on one meant ignoring the other—and each presented their own challenge. The adult chaurus crossed the distance between them faster than the average man could run; Malys' ice magic was too slow. By comparison, its younger counterpart was somewhat stealthier; its coloration, combined with the mists that blanketed the cave floor, made it nearly invisible to Cosette, who was still attempting to overcome the shock of seeing her first chaurus.

Both chaurus lunged at the two mages—but apparently Malys had seen this coming; with a hasty cry of "Switch!" she'd pushed Cosette into the path of the flying insect. The Breton instinctively reached out with her hands and bathed the horror in a steady torrent of flames. Both of its wings dried up under the barrage in a matter of seconds, and the chaurus tumbled to the ground, lashing out at whatever it could reach—at least, until a fireball from Cosette propelled it against the opposite cave wall with a hard, wet, and definitively fatal _smack_.

Meanwhile, Malys—in a feat of strength that Vinye suspected only a vampire was capable of—had grasped her chaurus by the pincers either side of its ugly head, and flung it against the wall as well, with similar results. A final ice spike from the Dunmer skewered it on the rocks, and the chaurus emitted a horrible, chittering shriek as it died.

The battle was won, but Cosette was livid at Malys as the vampire threw aside the chaurus' poisonous pincers, which Malys had forcibly wrenched off in the process of her struggle. "Don't _ever_ do that to me again!" raged the Breton, trying her best—and failing—to calm her heart back to normal. "I hate these bugs more than I hate Nords!"

Katria raised an eyebrow, and Cosette quickly backtracked on her words at the ghost's expression. "Erm … no offense," she hastily amended.

"None taken," Katria smiled, with all the cheer of a cat cornering a mouse. Vinye noticed her arm straining slightly for Zephyr, as if the Nord wanted nothing more than to raise a few lumps on the Breton's head with it. "At least we made it out in one piece. Chaurus nests are best dealt with in numbers—and a single chaurus isn't usually something you can take down one-on-one. Whatever they teach you at Winterhold is something else."

She moved on, and the mages followed behind. "We should be getting close to the summit," Katria told them. "If we're lucky, the way to the treasury should be clear already."

Vinye decided it wouldn't be best to ask what would happen if they were _unlucky_. The uneasy feeling in her chest told her they might be discovering the answer to that soon enough.

* * *

They emerged from the dank cave into a fair-sized clearing. It was very _green_ , the mages noted—there was vegetation everywhere; moss, grass, even several trees in the middle of the space. The glade was quite unlike the rest of Arkngthamz they'd already encountered, and Vinye suspected that this entire clearing might in fact have collapsed during the earthquake, judging from the large hole above them. It was already nighttime, which surprised her— _just how long have we been in here?_ Vinye wondered.

Katria pointed past one of the trees to a felled log thicker than they were tall. "Here's where I fell," she said again, her voice sorrowful. "Feels like ages ago, and yet I can still remember how the ground just … opened up. You know the funny thing, though?" she added with another little laugh. "I almost made it down alive—another foot or two to the side, and the water would've broken my fall. But … nothing I could do."

Vinye felt another pang of sympathy for Katria; so many times, this Nord had come so close to success, only to have it snatched away from her. The Synod and the College of Whispers had treated her no better.

The ground gradually sloped upward as the four women trekked onward. Any signs of tectonic activity were growing less and less conspicuous, and there were less and less signs of dwarven ruins as well.

 _Is this really the way we're supposed to go?_ Vinye thought. It was more logical for the dwarves—if they were to conceal something from the rest of the world—to do so _deeper_ underground. But they were getting closer to the so-called summit of Arkngthamz now, and Vinye was beginning to doubt her intuition. This treasury Katria had been going on about sounded as though it stuck out like a sore thumb—but there was no way they were heading to the top of the mountain. Even before the earthquakes, someone would surely have seen—

_Ah._

_Never mind._

The quartet had just stepped into a massive clearing—long enough to fit three Colleges, crumbling bridge and all. Dwarven arches were scattered hither and thither—some were submerged in a fairly large pool—and a small set of ruins and pipes were visible on the opposite cliff. But what held everyone's attention was at the far end of the clearing, towering as high as the edge of the cliff, and perhaps even higher: a massive carved wall, laid with pipes, golden filigree, more of those kinetic resonators staggered within alcoves in the wall—all capped by the biggest Dwarven face Vinye had yet seen, even counting the one they'd passed earlier.

 _This has to be the treasury_ , Vinye thought. Something that big had to have an equally monumental purpose.

"What a sight for sore eyes," Cosette groaned in relief. Malys nodded in agreement, transfixed at the sight.

But as they descended into the clearing, Vinye noticed that Katria was acting very strangely. Her eyes had not left the enormous structure for even a moment—and her expression was not one of appreciation, but of apprehension. Once, Vinye thought she could hear her swear under her breath, and the Altmer thought it might be for a good reason—especially when they came closer to the monolithic conglomeration.

It was a scene of mass carnage. Arrows, skeletons, and dozens of broken _animunculi_ littered the ground between them and the treasury. Vinye saw several large ballista bolts buried in the dirt—one, gruesomely enough, had even pinned a skeleton to one of the arches. Looking back to the cliff structure, she noticed the ballistae where the bolts had been fired, and below them, three gates—and her breath caught in her throat when she saw the silhouette of a massive centurion behind it. _No pressure_ , she thought.

This was definitely where they needed to be—but was it where they _wanted_ to be, more to the point?

"Hold on," Katria spoke up all of a sudden. "We need to talk."

"What is it?" frowned Malys.

The ghost sighed. "I'll be honest—I didn't think we'd make it this far, never mind in one piece," she said. "I'd been holding off telling you until now. Remember when I mentioned that there was one more danger in Arkngthamz? Well, you're looking at it." She gestured to the massive monolith of stone and metal.

 _The real danger_ , Vinye remembered. "What is it?" she asked.

"It's a lock," explained Katria. "But it isn't just any lock—it's a tonal lock. It's very simple—but very, very deadly. Those five resonators up there"—she pointed each one out to them—"control the mechanism that locks the gate. If we hit them in the right order, the gates either side should open, and let us into the treasury—no mess, no fuss."

"And what happens if we don't?" Cosette asked. "Knowing the Dwemer, they probably won't give us a second try."

"Oh, they do," said Katria. "They just don't leave anyone alive long enough to have another go. That's what I found out when I tried to unlock this thing. I got as far as the first resonator before … well, if you fail, you've already seen the results." She swept her arm around the entire space, indicating the devastation before them.

But something struck Vinye as odd. Katria had plummeted to her untimely death a far distance from this tonal lock—and her body had nary an arrow inside it. How, therefore, had she survived all these traps, only to die—

And then realization hit Vinye like a ton of bricks. Katria hadn't survived the trap at all.

"The earthquake," she said softly, slowly turning to look at Katria. The ghost was actively trying to avoid meeting her gaze. "It wasn't a natural occurrence, wasn't it? You triggered it, didn't you—the first time you tried picking this lock?"

Katria nodded. " … Yeah," she said simply. "I thought I was prepared for anything—but how can you prepare for a damned earthquake? And that was just one trap!" she exclaimed, brandishing Zephyr at the tonal lock. "I mean—just look around! Who knows what else this thing is capable of?"

"So what should we do, then?" Cosette had backed away from the tonal lock as soon as Vinye had mentioned the earthquake, having put two and two together herself. "You say you only got one resonator right?"

"Yep," affirmed the specter. "I know for a fact it was the one on the lower left." She pointed to the resonator in question. "After that, I don't know what we'll do. Most of the traps may already have been sprung, judging by all this—but with the Dwemer you never know." Katria groaned. "My journal had more notes about this setup—if only we had it, maybe we'd be through the lock already."

A thought came to Vinye. "Maybe you weren't alone," she mused aloud. "Maybe someone else had the same idea you did—tested the lock first, and recorded the results. Plenty of people have already tried." She looked left and right at all the skeletons around them, and then to Malys and Cosette. "Spread out, all of you," she told them. "Look around for anything that might give us a clue to getting through. I'll take care of the lock."

And without further ado, Vinye launched a bolt straight for the lower left resonator. There was a _hiss-thunk_ as the bolt impacted, and the fanlike contraption spun upward—and then a deep, bell-like tone. A gas lamp flared, and there was a hiss of steam from the enormous bust above them, but otherwise there was nothing to suggest she had triggered the lock.

Vinye clenched a fist in triumph. _One down_.

She looked back at her two classmates, who were still standing there. "Well, go on!" the Altmer groused at them. "I won't be able to do this alone, you know!"

"Well, maybe _we_ want to try our hand at this thing," Cosette said defiantly. "You're not the only one who can reach that far with magic."

Vinye couldn't fault her for that. However … "This is going to take precision," she told Cosette. "Your fire's good and all, but there's also a chance this trap could be pressure-sensitive. Too much force on it—or too little—and this entire venture could blow up in our face. No, fire's too strong—and Malys, your ice is no good on all this machinery. It won't have the stopping power to make these resonators budge enough. I've got to do this part myself."

Cosette groaned. "Fine." She stalked off toward the nearest skeleton, and began sifting through the bones with her Forsworn blade. Malys went in the other direction, and—being undead—had no aversion to searching the skeletons with her bare hands.

It was several minutes before Cosette finally found something. She abruptly stood up with a cry of triumph, and held aloft a torn scrap of parchment. Vinye took it from her before the paltry shred could flutter away in the wind, and was somewhat crestfallen to see that all that was legible was only two simple numbers scrawled on the paper:

_3  
_

_2_

Vinye frowned. "Well, this should at least get us halfway," she shrugged. "Anything on your side, Malys?"

The only response was a long groan, followed by Malys kicking a skull into the nearby pool. "Not so much as an empty inkwell," seethed the vampire.

"Then this is all we've got," Vinye said. She took a closer look at the parchment. The numbers were strangely positioned, and Vinye had a hunch from this that they were stand-ins for the resonators. Sure enough, when she held the scrap up alongside the tonal lock, the resonators were staggered in almost the same position—two above, three below. Number two was on the lower right; the third, on the top left. She fired a bolt at the former— _hiss-thunk_ —and the second resonator slid up to join its lower left counterpart. Another lamp lit up, and another bell rang in response to this—slightly higher in pitch than the first, and Vinye knew this one had succeeded too.

 _Two down_.

"That's it … " Katria coaxed her on.

 _Now the top left_. A third bolt, and this resonator, too, jumped upward— _hiss-thunk_ —with a whoosh of steam, followed by an even higher tone of incipient success.

_That makes three …_

"Keep going," breathed Katria. In spite of their progress, the ghost was beginning to sound nervous, and Vinye couldn't blame her. There were still two resonators left—and the mages didn't have a single clue as to which one they should strike next. Vinye felt her neck begin to sweat as the scenario took shape in her mind: if they succeeded, they'd be through to the treasury. If they didn't … they might not get a chance to try again.

Vinye stared back at the centurion. _No pressure_ , she thought again.

"Chance might be all we have," Cosette said, hands on her hips as she studied their progress so far. "We'll have to wing it and see what happens now." She raised a finger, pointing back and forth between the two remaining resonators—first the top right, and then the one in the middle.

"Eeny, meeny, miney, mo," she sang as she did so, "catch a fat Nord by his toe. If he cries out, 'Let me go'—oh, what the hell, just pick one!" she shouted at Vinye, bringing fiery magic to her fingertips. "I'm ready for anything!"

Vinye had subconsciously been following Cosette as she'd sung her little tune, and now—throwing all caution to the winds—decided she'd go for the top right resonator. It made sense to her—the one in the middle, whether in front or in back, was always the most important of its kind. She took aim, then, and fired. The bolt flew straight and true, and hit the resonator dead center in one of the blades—

And bounced off—to exactly the one place where Vinye didn't want it.

As she looked on in shock, the bolt ricocheted downward, impacting the central resonator. Both contraptions spun upwards at the same time, with the same _hiss-thunk_ noise. There was another bell-tone, just like before—but this one was much more discordant; whether both were triggered at the same time, or if this unforeseen action triggered an entirely new reaction, Vinye did not know.

What she _did_ know was that somehow—in the most improbable way imaginable—she had failed.

And now the earth was beginning to rumble, louder and more violently than before. Steam was billowing from all the pipes that ran through the tonal lock, and the shrieking noise of metal against metal grated against their ears.

 _Here we go_ , thought Vinye. "Form up!" she hollered.

"Look out!"

Katria's warning—and Cosette's quick tug on her robe—were the only things that saved her. Before Vinye had time to blink, a ballista bolt had impacted exactly where she'd been standing a split second ago. The tip of the bolt exploded, sending the mages flying every which way. And the tonal lock wasn't done yet, Vinye noticed—automata of just about every type imaginable were streaming from the pipes—spheres, spiders—and her heart sank as the middle gate slid open, revealing the centurion beyond in all its gleaming, terrible fury.

The spiders came first—Katria wielded Zephyr like a blade, disabling one and hooking another onto a limb of the bow, whereupon the ghost tossed it into the lake beyond like a fisherman casting a reel. Two more blasted away at Malys with spurts of lightning, but the vampire's ward held long enough for Vinye and Cosette to down one each.

Katria wasted no time nocking an arrow and shooting yet another construct right in the gem on its crown, forcing it out of its receptacle. There was a spurt of steam, and the spider blew apart with a burst of lightning that disabled another spider. The last of the spiders leapt straight for Malys, but the vampire was ready. A split second before the _animunculus'_ six pincers—spread out for maximum damage—found a target in her flesh, Malys reached out with a fist, and connected with the automaton square in its central hub. Her free hand created a brief ward to deflect any errant components—and as it turned out, a second explosion of lightning. The vampire huffed, and shook the mechanical spider off her arm, which was now covered in dark brown oil.

But no one had time to celebrate—as soon as the last spider had fallen, the artificial sphere-men behind them fired a volley of bolts from their crossbows. These could not be so easily stopped by wards, as Cosette found out when she tried to deflect one that came too close to her. The bolt ripped right into her elbow, and the Breton screamed in pain.

"They're enchanted!" Cosette yowled. "Those bolts have some kind of fire magic in them!"

Malys hurried for her, preparing some healing magic. "Sit tight, Cozy!" she cried, just barely missing a second bolt that took a few black hairs off the Dunmer's head. "I'll patch you up!"

"I'm fine!" Cosette hurled a fireball at one of the spheres with her wounded arm to prove that she was, indeed, fine. The blast of flames blew apart the automaton's crossbow, but the automaton itself was not out yet. "I've got some armor on under this—I'll be good for a few more rounds yet!"

"Don't test us, Cosette!" Vinye called out, disabling an _animunculus_ with three quick lightning bolts—one to each shoulder, and another to the chest—and toppling it backward. Within moments, she'd ducked for cover behind the remains of an arch, sniping away at anything within range. "Put on the pressure—we can beat them!"

The next few minutes were the longest in the mages' lives yet; the air was thick with steam, magic, and crossbow bolts aplenty. Both sides aimed to strafe the other, never sitting still, never daring to turn their own selves into a target, and so both sides were fighting to a near standstill. But Vinye and Katria were causing devastation—Katria, as she no longer possessed a corporeal form, could make the shots she needed without worrying about retaliation. Her aim with Zephyr was swift and precise, and four of her arrows found their mark in four different sphere-men, and thus summarily disabled, they clattered to the ground one after the other.

Vinye, who had tapped into her innate Altmer abilities again, felt the magicka blaze around her as lightning poured from her hands. She deliberately overcharged her bolts—as she had unintentionally done with those resonators—and aimed for an adjacent arch, bouncing her lightning off the stone and into an _animunculus_. A full minute of this left the remaining sphere-men either disabled or disassembled, and Vinye had expended so much lightning in the process that the air smelled horribly of ozone.

Malys gagged at the scent. "Very efficient," the Dunmer noted sardonically. "Did you really have to go that far to wipe out all those machines?"

Vinye huffed. "Try bouncing fire and ice off the ground," she challenged Malys. "See how far you get. It was the only way I could take them all out without having to risk my neck."

A shriek of gears distracted them, and everyone looked back at the tonal lock—or more accurately, the dwarven centurion that had just now begun to plod towards them. It blasted a wall of steam at them—and only a ward from each of the mages was able to completely dispel it.

As the centurion advanced, so—to Vinye's surprise—did Malys. "Stay behind me," said the vampire. "I'll handle this. I know how these constructs work better than you."

The Altmer was flabbergasted. Malys had only been seen using ice magic—which was worse than useless against an automaton this size! How could she—?

Wait. No, she had another weapon—Vinye had seen it used before, on Ugluk in that grove. Vampire magic, she knew—it had absorbed something from the Orc, Ugluk, but was it life essence, or something else? This only added to her confusion. Dwemer golems were neither living nor dead—how then, would vampire magic work on them?!

As the centurion pulled its head back for another blast of steam, Malys raised both of her hands, and they erupted in the same blood-red energy that had ensnared Ugluk. It bubbled like boiling water, and lashed out at the air like some angry beast—as though it was somehow _alive_. Then, Malys tensed up, and the crimson substance reached out towards the construct, engulfing it within a matter of seconds.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Vinye was anticipating the torrent of steam to come at any moment. But suddenly, she heard a sound like screaming—and it seemed to be coming from the centurion. Then the scarlet-colored energy receded from the golem, and back into Malys' hands—and the centurion toppled to the ground with an earth-shaking _thud_.

The vampire was breathing heavily, but there was still a smile on her face as she stood up straight. "That was … exhausting," she panted. "I'm going to need a nap after all this, I think."

"What did you do?!" Katria was eyeing the fallen animunculus with amazement. "What kind of magic was that?"

" _Vampire_ magic," Malys answered her, with a hint of disgust. "Dwemer automatons are powered by soul gems. That's what ended up happening to most of the Falmer—they got used as fuel to power the toys of the dwarves. This spell I used targets souls specifically—and it rips them out of whatever earthly body they possess, whether it's a living being, a suit of armor, an automaton, or even a soul gem—but the smaller the vessel, the less time it takes. It's also a nice alternative to feeding on blood every so often," she added, looking at each of the mages pointedly.

Neither Cosette nor Vinye could repress a shudder at the explanation—such a spell had far-reaching implications, the Altmer knew, and it could be used in any number of frightening ways. She hoped fervently that this spell was unique to Malys alone, and not something that any vampire or necromancer could use to terrorize Tamriel.

Katria, meanwhile, had torn her eyes from the centurion, and was now looking at the tonal lock with some trepidation. "I think we've survived … for now," she said. "We should try again while we still have the chance."

Vinye silently agreed, and got to her feet after a minute to let her magicka replenish itself. She noted with slight annoyance that the resonators had reset themselves—she'd have to start over from the beginning. And so—once, twice, thrice—she fired off one bolt each at the lower left, lower right, and top left resonators. All three swung upwards, as they had before, and Vinye now took aim at the next resonator.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Cosette wondered out loud.

For only a moment, Vinye broke her concentration to look back at the Breton. "Do you trust me?" she replied back.

Cosette spent the next minute or so deep in thought, before—finally—she nodded.

Vinye smiled back. "Then you've got nothing to worry about," she said, and fired.

The bolt struck the top right resonator, and this time it did not bounce off. With a _hiss-thunk_ that carried more suspense than Valenwood ever had, the contraption shot up—and this time the note that rang out was clear.

"Got it!" Katria whooped, raising Zephyr up high as Vinye took aim and blasted at the final resonator. All the pressure had gone from her, and before the high elf knew it, the resonator had already activated with a _hiss-thunk_ she didn't even hear, and the sound of the gates scraping open felt like heaven.

All four adventurers rushed in, eager to gaze upon the treasure of Arkngthamz—and what a treasure it turned out to be, Vinye thought in elation. There were enough Dwemer trinkets and ingots of their metal in here to make everyone in the Synod and the College of whispers set for life. And that was to say nothing of the gold in the chest that Cosette was scooping into her rucksack, or the pristine black robe Malys fished out of a smaller container to wear for herself.

But right now, there was only one object that commanded her attention.

"So, it is real," Katria breathed reverently, as Vinye gently took the shard of Aetherium in her hands to show to everyone else.

"Wait," the ghost said suddenly, "That shape … those edges. This has been cut—precisely cut! If you had another piece, around the same size, I bet you it would snap right in!"

" _Cut_ Aetherium?" Vinye was incredulous. "That's impossible—nothing can do that to something this solid!"

"There's one thing that can," Katria corrected her, "and we have the key to finding it—literally. I've seen drawings of these shapes before—this shard here is part of a key made of pure, refined Aetherium … the key to the Forge!"

"No kidding," breathed Malys. Cosette was too shocked to even speak.

"Now we just have to find the other pieces." Katria was pacing now, muttering nonstop under her breath. "Each city that was involved with the Aetherium process produced its own shard of the stuff. "Arkngthamz studied it, Raldbthar mined it out, Mzulft stored it raw, Bthar-zel refined it … oh, but _that_ place has been lost completely!" she moaned. "There's no way to get in there now!"

"We don't need to," said Vinye. "There were … three other pieces, I'm guessing?" She nodded at Cosette and Malys, and all three elves presented their own Aetherium shards. Wordlessly, the mages brought them all together, and with a small series of snaps, the shards of Aetherium now formed one perfectly circular crest that shimmered with blue energy.

The ghost was awestruck, and was forced to sit down on a nearby dais to collect her thoughts. "Unbelievable," she finally managed to say. "This makes things so much easier …

"We still have to find the Forge itself, though," she amended, "and I had a lead on that in my journal, too—but right now, I could care less about that; there's still so much to do. I'm going to see what I can track down—don't worry, I know we'll meet again."

Katria was fading now, and her voice was more and more echoing. "For the first time in a long, long while," she thought, "I think I—erm, we," she corrected, looking at the mages, "might actually be able to do this! And I owe it all to you three. So … thank you. For everything."

"Wait," Cosette jumped in. "What about this lead? Where did it take you?"

Before she disappeared from the summit of Arkngthamz, Katria told them.


	16. XV

XV

_The Midden_

_One day later_

Drevis Neloren had planned as best he could.

It had taken Brelyna a whole half-day to procure every single ounce of dwarven oil in the College's stores, along with every single taproot and bloom of dragon's tongue. The rest of that day had been devoted to preparing the ingredients.

Normally, when combined, these three components could be brewed into a potion that fortified the imbiber's skill in illusion magic as long as it was in the system. But Drevis knew he would have to spend much more time than simple potions allowed. No, he needed something that lasted for much longer—and was more efficient as well.

And so it was that Phinis, J'zargo, Tolfdir, and Brelyna had each brought in a brass brazier, while Drevis had ground up all the ingredients Brelyna had helped to gather into one fine powder. Over the past day, the dwarven oil had sufficiently dried enough under Brelyna's watchful care to where this substance no longer coagulated, but had instead separated into a coarse, sand-like material. This powder would then be burned, and the chamber where Drevis now sat would be sealed off to keep the smoke from escaping. For it was this smoke—tinged with traces of its base components—that would allow Drevis to properly examine Solyn's handsome payment to Winterhold.

While the oil was drying, Tolfdir, Phinis, and J'zargo had assisted him in transforming a large section of the floor into a powerful scrye. A large rune—flowing, intricate, and in every way unlike the spiky glyphs that characterized most magic runes—had been inscribed on the stone surface.

It was in this rune that Drevis now sat cross-legged, as he had been for the past hour, while the other four prepared for the lengthy session. The two dozen guards that Arch-Mage Grimnir had loaned from Calcelmo stood against the wall in absolute silence—not even the most skeptical of them would dare raise his voice, lest he interrupt this monumentally important task.

"I will say to you again—this will take some time," Drevis was advising them, eyes closed. "You are all certain that your personal affairs are in order until we are done? Once we begin the scrye, I will not be able to stop—and the better part of today will likely be spent here. I must also be allowed to have complete and total concentration. It will be up to you," he said to the guards, "to divert any and all distractions away from the scrye. Understood?"

The guards saluted him. "Very well," Drevis said, apparently satisfied. "Light the braziers."

His four assistants did as they were told. The braziers had already been filled with enough powder to make a full day's worth of smoke to enhance Drevis' scrying abilities. A simple burst of mage-fire from each of them now set this mixture alight, and it gave off a smell that was initially sweet, but came off as very acrid, and sour enough to curl a Nord's nose hairs. Within minutes, the chamber would be filled with this smoke.

Until then, Drevis waited.

* * *

_Somewhere in the Rift_

_The next morning_

"Remind me again," an annoyed and thoroughly out-of-breath Cosette asked, as she and the two elves turned off the road in a more southerly direction, "why we couldn't have just found this place _before_ we went all the way out to Arkngthamz?"

"For one thing, we didn't even know it existed at all, never mind _where_." Vinye told her. "But Katria also mentioned that these bits of Aetherium were the key to the Forge. That says to me there's no other way inside without all four shards."

"And of course, those shards just _had_ to be scattered to the four winds, didn't they?" Cosette huffed. "Is it just me, or did the dwarves make a living out of being colossal pains in the _arse_ to everyone they met?"

Nobody answered her. The reason why was soon apparent: a stone arch was rising into view before the mages, and it lay next to a small pavilion with a raised barricade on one side. All of them were carved in the characteristic geometric designs of the Dwemer.

"That's the Forge?" Vinye asked in disbelief. "There's no way it's that easy."

Cosette felt her breath catch in her mouth when she saw a body slumped against the arch: a bandit, judging by the rough appearance of the furs that served as his armor. There were several others spread out across the ruin, and the Breton could see several tents erected. They must have been camped out here, she decided.

Malys had hurried ahead, and was already examining the nearest body. She gingerly poked a finger down his throat. "No blood," she said, almost to herself. She gathered some ice onto her fingers, forming a small blade that she used to slit the robber's neck. A reddish-brown substance, almost like dirt, spilled out from the wound.

"The blood's all coagulated—drier than a bone," Malys told them. "These bandits have been dead for days. Maybe even longer."

"One of them must have gotten too greedy for his own good," Cosette said. Lowlifes like these would do anything to put one more septim in their pockets—even if it meant killing their own mates.

"I don't think so." All three mages jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, and Cosette looked up to see Katria's ghost descending from a set of wooden stairs that led to one of the higher sections of the ruin.

"There's no blood on _any_ of their weapons at all, not even dried," Katria explained, her translucent face grave with worry. "This wasn't just some squabble that turned ugly. Someone else killed them, and very quickly, too—before they had a chance to bring their weapons to bear. I'd say it was over in a matter of seconds."

"You think someone beat us here?" Cosette asked her.

"Not unless there's a second set of Aetherium shards forged exactly like the ones you found," Katria said, before her face fell. "They didn't get—!"

"No, nobody stole them," Cosette said hurriedly, producing the assembled Aetherium key from her satchel.

Katria breathed a sigh of relief. "Phew. All right—let me show you the next step." She bade the mages follow her, and the ghost of the Nord led them up the stairs to a circular pavilion. Cosette saw a globelike shape fixed on a dais in the center of the stone platform.

Katria pointed out a toothed circular shape below the fixture. "See the gap in the center? The hole in the middle looks about the right size as the assembled key. If I wasn't already dead, I'd bet my life that might be our keyhole."

"One way to find out." Cosette stepped forward—only to be rebuffed by Malys, who threw out her hand so suddenly that she caught the Breton full in the stomach. "W-What was that for?" she coughed.

Malys pointed downward to … apparently nothing. However, "There's some kind of rune running all around this platform," she said. "I don't know if you can see it—but my eyes can, plain as day. Someone was definitely here—a wizard, too. That's probably why all those bandits died without a mark on their body."

 _Well, that's not ominous_ , Cosette thought. "What kind of rune is it? Explosive?"

The vampire shook her head. "No. A rune this big, any detonation would be too diluted to be lethal. And the runes don't look to me like any elemental trap at all—what's more, there's a second circle of runes inside this one." Her face reflected everyone's confusion. "I can't really say what this is—I've never seen anything like it before."

Cosette fetched a bulging sack of food from nearby—lettuce, she thought apropos of nothing. _I hate lettuce_. "Then you might want to stand back." Before any of the mages could stop her, she heaved the sack onto the platform, where it fell with a wet crunching noise that nevertheless made everyone jump.

Nothing happened.

Cosette made a "humph" noise, and Vinye, who had thrown up a ward at the moment of impact, relaxed. "Well, if that was any sort of trap, that sack would have set it off," she said. "I'd say we're clear now, Malys. But if you still want to hang back, that's fine with me."

Ultimately, however, none of them kept their distance—though Malys, who was still obviously wary of the rune under her feet, took rather longer to cross over to the astrolabe than the others. Only when she had reached the other side did she relax.

Producing the key once more, Cosette fed the assembled shards into the round depression under the instrument, and instantly she knew something had happened. The circular slice of Aetherium fit inside perfectly, and the gear immediately sunk an inch into the stone column with a gentle _click_. Then, there was a rumbling noise from deep below them—too small to be an earthquake, but just loud enough to be noticeable to their ears.

Other than that, though, there was no apparent effect, and the mages looked to Katria for an explanation.

The ghost looked deep in thought. "Try … taking it out?" she finally offered.

There was no retrieving the shards now, Cosette could see—they fit together so perfectly that the gaps between them looked almost invisible. There was, however, a groove outside the device that held them in that was just wide enough for the mages' fingers to slip in. Carefully, all three of them pried out the gear-shaped device, and passed it along to Malys.

But in doing so, they heard a second small _click_ from below them, and the astrolabe began to spin. More importantly, though, the ground beneath them shook again—and much more violently this time. It was as though the ruins themselves were—Cosette gasped.

"What the—get back!" Katria had evidently come to the same conclusion. "Hurry!"

Malys nearly dropped the crest in her haste to stand clear, and the mages leapt off the plinth not a moment too soon—the very instant Malys' foot left the stone, the entire platform heaved upward as though it had been tossed by a hundred giants.

"Whoa … " Katria breathed, too engrossed to say anything further. The three mages were similarly lost for words.

It was several seconds before the platform—now merely the summit of an immense tower—finally halted its rise from the earth, and everyone managed to tear their eyes away from the sight to greet a second shock: this tower concealed a lift.

"It's true." Katria spoke only slightly above a whisper, and Cosette knew the gleam in her ghostly eye. The adventurer was now closer than she'd ever been to a secret she'd been chasing for Old Gods only knew how long.

"It's all true," Katria said again, and rushed for the lift. "Come on!" she called to the others, "let's check it out!"

The three mages hurried behind her, and the ghost—somehow; Cosette could never quite be sure how ghosts could interact with solid objects—pushed the lever with her foot. The ancient mechanism shrieked as gears—dormant for untold thousands of years, and oiled only with dust and time in all those centuries—began to turn, and the lift jumped downward.

Suddenly, Cosette got a very sharp jab in her chest from Vinye's elbow. Wincing at the blow, Cosette turned to complain, but Vinye had such a look of dread on her face that her rebuke died on her lips. The Breton glanced in Malys' direction, and deduced that the vampire had been elbowed in a similar way.

"What was that for?" Malys said harshly.

"Don't make any sudden moves—don't scream or anything," Vinye whispered, her voice nearly nonexistent over the reluctant machinery. "We have company."

Katria heard her, and was alert. "Who is it?"

"The trees," replied Vinye. "Far off, to the right. Look there."

Cosette did as she was told, and scanned the area Vinye had pointed out. Within a few moments she saw it: a lone figure, nearly a dark smear from the distance between them, but visible among the tree it was leaning against.

Katria saw it too, and frowned. "Who is that?" she asked them. "I don't know who that is, but I can feel … _something_ from whoever it is, even from here."

"Something?" Cosette felt uneasy.

The ghost gulped. "Whatever it is, it's not normal—and it's older than any of us. A _lot_ older."

Cosette had no idea what that meant. Perhaps Katria, as a spirit, could somehow gauge the life force of a living thing—how old or young it was, how much time it had left upon this world, and so on and so forth.

She took one more look at the figure, and then she and the rest of the adventurers sank beneath the surface of the earth. Cosette had no idea who that was, but it wasn't hard to guess who it might be. Only one person outside of Winterhold had ever shown any recurring interest in the three mages—and what they were after—keeping their distance, analyzing them from an invisible vantage point, and waiting until they were at their most vulnerable. Waiting for the right chance to strike.

 _Rolega_.

* * *

The ride down the lift took much longer than anyone had anticipated, least of all Mistress Malys, who was only just now beginning to feel the shock of the sight vinye had shown her wear off.

"How deep are we?" wondered katria in amazement, as the gears kept on turning, kept on pulling them further down. "I've never gone this far into the earth before."

However, Mistress Malys only had one thing on Her mind—rolega the quiet was here. The strange thief had been tailing them yet again. It was even possible that she had been tracking the mages ever since Falkreath—up to when they'd escaped those Forsworn, and descended into Arkngthamz.

Was it even possible that she'd even followed them inside? Malys could not be sure. All She was certain about at this point was that rolega the quiet was starting to look like less and less than an ordinary thief. The Thieves Guild was a strange bunch, no matter which chapter. A rival organization, according to rumor, had wiped out the Guild's presence in Morrowind long before the Red Year. But Cyrodiil's was shrouded in myth, and it was said that one of their members was capable of rewriting history—something even the most learned of wizards could not do.

The Skyrim chapter … all that Malys knew of this was that for one thing, the guild had been recently restored to glory—and seemingly overnight at that. The other was that barenziah, the Dunmer queen of legend, had counted herself as part of its ranks. But barenziah's history was a muddy one—and too much of it was the result of rumor and rampant sensationalizing. As a result, no one knew if barenziah was simply a common thief before her accession, or if she'd been more than that. And if she wasn't—then what kind of power did the Thieves Guild of Skyrim possess?

Who _was_ this thief?

For now, though, those were questions that would ultimately have to wait; the elevator was finally slowing down.

"Finally," katria sighed. "That took a lot longer than usual. Let's see what we can find," she told the mages, who once again let her take the lead.

They stepped out into a largely natural cave. There were signs that the Dwemer had been here, obviously—the most eminent being the carved stone sconces that dotted the cobblestone path on which they were walking. As they passed by them, fires leaped up in the sconces, as if beckoning them closer and closer to a wonderful and terrible sight. _Like moths to a flame,_ Malys thought apropos of nothing.

"Amazing … " was all that katria could say as they entered a truly massive cavern that could have fit the entirety of the College—Midden, crumbling bridge and all—twice over. The space was partially sunken in deep water, fed by a great waterfall. Malys fired an ice spike into the abyss experimentally, checking to see how deep it was. The projectile was swallowed up by the water, and was lost to sight within seconds. If it shattered at the bottom, Malys didn't hear it. She gulped—She would have to watch Her footing.

"To think … no one's been here for four thousand years … " katria went on, still taking in the sights, twirling this way and that so her ghostly eyes could see every nook and cranny of the cave.

Their destination soon loomed ahead—a massive sculpture of carved stone and Dwarven metal. Several automatons, frozen forever in testimony to the expertise of the Dwemer architects, flanked the stairs upward like giant, silent guards. A single gate—tiny only in comparison with its surroundings, lay sealed before them—inviting them inside even further.

"No lock," katria observed, "and the door is shut tight." The specter's eyes drifted upward, and lit up suddenly when she saw a pair of familiar machines resting at the ready. "But those resonators up above it … yeah … I bet you anything they'd open it."

"No mess, no fuss?" asked Malys, raising an eyebrow at her—She wasn't likely to be forgetting what had happened in Arkngthamz any time soon.

"Not after what we've all been through," was katria's reply. "And I bet you lot didn't have a good time of it, either. The Dwemer aren't _that_ cruel. Just hit the resonators, and they'll open the gates—I'm sure of it."

Malys shrugged, and before anyone could say anything, she'd fired off an ice storm in the gap between the two resonators. The mass of ice and cold air expanded, and hit both contraptions in their fanlike blades. They spun upward at the same time, and the gate swung open with a harsh scraping sound that left everyone, even katria, rubbing their ears in annoyance.

The path beyond was constantly sloping, and filled to the brim with machinery. Giant pistons, bigger than any of them, pushed back and forth with a near-constant hiss of steam. But what was more noticeable about it, at least to Malys, was the atmosphere of the place.

"The air here feels different," katria mused. "Can you all feel that? It's a lot warmer down here than any Dwarven ruin I've been in."

"It feels like I'm back in Elsweyr," commented vinye. "I went there when I was younger—before I ever got involved with the Thalmor." Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Malys thought she saw her eyes mist over at the memory.

"It's more than that." On the other hand, cosette looked the definition of anxiety. "This place feels like Rkund."

Mistress Malys was surprised to hear that, and She soon realized cosette was right. The further down they trekked, the warmer it became. When they had explored the ruins of Rkund, and the Reliquary inside, She remembered tolfdir talking about how the Dwemer had possibly reached the point where they could dig down no further, because the heat of the place was simply so stifling. Was it the same case here, then, with this nameless ruin?

They turned a corner, and were greeted with a simple door made of solid Dwemer metal. But a shimmering haze surrounded it, and Malys had the impression that this was not the result of any spellwork or enchantment—but rather from the extreme heat of whatever was behind it. If anyone touched this as it was now, they would get severely burned at best—at worst, it would be like handling something that had been bathed in dragon fire.

"Don't open up the door," She cautioned the others. "Not yet. I want to try something."

Malys gathered some ice magic in her hands, and directed it at the lock of the door. There was no telling if it was locked at all, but even if it wasn't, then a steady application of Her frost should cool the immediate area down enough to where the door could be opened without any pain.

Hopefully.

Half a minute passed before Malys decided that She had applied enough, and before the door had a chance to warm up again, She forced open the door with a quick kick to the lock. The doors swung open—

—and very nearly swung back at them; a great blast of hot wind blew from the unsealed chamber before them, and everyone was forced to shield their eyes from the errant embers that flowed out of the room, carried by the wind.

When it had subsided, they uncovered their eyes, and stared at what awaited them—only to be simultaneously let down and confused: the chamber beyond, while evidently massive in size, was flooded to the rafters in thick clouds of scalding steam, trapped inside with nowhere to go for the past four millennia.

It would appear, thought Malys in Her annoyance, that this ruin was concealing its secrets to the bitter end.

But unsealing this room had done the trick—even now the clouds were thinning out a little, just enough to where a trip down a long flight of stairs revealed a massive Dwarven bust, placed over more pipes and pistons than any of them had ever seen in one place. What was even stranger to Malys was that it appeared to be spitting … lava?

katria held a hand over her eye as they got closer. "Is that … the Forge?" she asked, her expression showing confusion and curiosity in equal measure.

The four women tried to get closer, but the steam was still too oppressive, and Malys was just able to see the steam rising from a massive grating in the floor—under which yet more of the molten magma flowed—before it became too thick to even breathe.

"Ugh," coughed katria. "Let's clear out some of this steam so we can have a look. There should be a valve or two somewhere around here. Turn those, and the air should clear up."

The mages did as they were told—there were indeed a pair bright red valves connected to some of the pipes either side of the entrance. Malys turned one, while Vinye and Cosette turned the other; each proved difficult to activate, owing to the lack of use and maintenance over the centuries.

But the effect was immediate—within seconds, the steam began to drift upwards, revealing the chamber they were standing in to its fullest extent. And what a room it was, Malys thought in wonder—it was even larger than the massive cave they'd crossed to get in here! Half of it was covered in Dwarven ruins, while the other half was a natural cavern, submerged in more molten magma than she'd ever seen. It felt like She was standing inside Red Mountain, and the facilities that the dwarves had built within that volcano. The heat was incredible, and—being a vampire—not something She was entirely fond of.

It was the object in the center that held everyone's attention, however—a massive collection of pistons, boilers, and pipes that branched in every direction and high over their heads into unseen heights. The exact center of the contraption was hollow, and there was a slight blue glow from within—a stark contrast to the grays and golds that constantly dominated Dwarven ruins.

"Is this it?" katria was thunderstruck, and circled the mass of metal and stone with apprehension—but also a growing sense of excitement. "Did we seriously just find it?"

vinye could not tear her eyes from the contraption. "I think we did."

Malys couldn't help but laugh in her relief. "That was easier than I expected," She said. "Historically speaking, we've usually had to put up more of a fight to get as far as this."

Which, of course, was the perfect time for an ominous rumbling sound to start within the ruin. Then, much to the mages' shock, a scraping sound behind them revealed that the stairs were actually retracting into the floor, cutting off their only mode of escape.

"Malys?" cosette's doughy face was devoid of all emotion. "I'm going to kill you."

Malys was about to reply with a witty rebuke—until she heard the heavy plodding sound of very large footsteps.

 _They were coming from under the lava_.

* * *

"Run."

Vinye had heard the footsteps, too, and automatically felt a cold sweat run down her back that the heat of the air could do nothing to mitigate. Of course the dwarves would booby-trap the valves, she'd realized only too late. Cosette's assumption of the Dwemer being a collective "pain in the arse" might have had some merit after all, she thought.

"Run!" she shouted again, and everyone scattered.

"Get up on the gantries!" Katria yelled, as the footsteps grew closer. She pointed to the platforms, where the valves they'd activated sat. "Spread out, buy us all some time!"

A loud rattling noise interrupted her, and Katria swore when she saw the source. "Spiders!" she shouted back at them, gesturing toward the large number of knee-high constructs that skittered toward them. "Don't worry, we can handle them," she confided. "Now come on!"

Before Vinye could even think to object, the ghost had nocked and loosed an arrow, and the spider nearest them was disabled before the elf could open her mouth. Swallowing her rebuke, Vinye followed suit, and took aim at another automaton. She fired off a bolt, and was rewarded with a sizzling burst that crippled a second spider, scattering gears and gyros every which way.

It was the start of a heated, bloodless battle that was unlike anything the adventurers had seen before.

Half a dozen spiders broke off from the main group, and now headed toward the platform on the left, where Cosette and Malys had taken shelter. The vampire had taken up a position behind Cosette, supporting her with healing magic while the Breton hurled firebolts at any spider within reach. Cosette had also summoned an atronach, which was tearing through its own group of _animunculi_ as well with its own firebolts. It did not last long, though: the spiders seemed to realize that the flame atronach was a higher-priority target, and focused it down with pincers and spurts of lightning. Within seconds, the atronach was destroyed, taking two spiders with it in its death throes and damaging three more—which Cosette finished off with a pair of fireballs.

Vinye observed this behavior with some unease, even as she unleashed a burst of lightning that blew two more spiders apart at the same time. These automata were unusually smart for mere spiders—were they simply tougher? Or was it something more complex than—

"Spheres!" Katria's shout broke Vinye away from her observation. "On the upper level!"

As she saw the half-dozen sphere-men rolling down from opposing hallways towards them, Vinye understood: somehow, the automatons that guarded the Forge—or perhaps even the Forge itself—had sensed the strength of this atronach, and found it to be stronger than they had anticipated. Therefore, in order to deal with these stronger-than-anticipated intruders, a stronger response was necessary—hence, the sphere-men.

The first two were focused down by Vinye, who—after taking a quick draft from one of her few remaining potions—applied a half-dozen bolts to the joints of each _animunculus_ —the hips and each shoulder—and disabling the automatons summarily. Cosette had summoned another atronach, and each engaged another sphere with a combination of melee and magic—Cosette with a Forsworn blade and a hand full of flames, while her summons had formed a crude blade of fire from each claw, and swiped at its opponent like a whirlwind. Neither automaton had expected to encounter such versatile opponents—and as a result, they were nothing but piles of scrap inside of a minute, steam belching from every joint, and forming rising clouds in the chamber as their parts settled on the giant grating.

It was only when those clouds had grown so large and dense that they obscured the Forge completely did Vinye know what was _really_ going on, and she began to feel short of breath because of the choking steam. Katria, being ghostly and therefore not needing to breathe, soon realized the same thing.

"The steam!" she yelled to no one in particular. "Quick, shut it off!"

The spheres had been a diversion, Vinye now realized—the Forge had somehow counted on the mages taking the spheres more seriously than the spiders, and they had fallen for it. In the heat of the moment, they'd allowed a spider or two to slip behind them, and reactivate the valves that they'd just turned to clear the initial steam from the chamber. These spiders were soon discovered, and Katria used an arrow from Zephyr to knock one into the lava lake behind the Forge. Malys destroyed another with a quick burst of her strange vampire magic, and hurled its remains at a sphere that was about to draw and quarter her. The man-high construct shrieked in protest as the scattered components jammed its own workings, and Cosette quickly blasted it back with a fireball before the exploding _animunculus_ could severely injure them both.

That just left the oppressive clouds of steam—which the mages soon discovered had an unexpected secondary effect: somehow, simply being inside those clouds was _healing_ the automatons. It was not doing a complete job; Dwemer metal, while strong and sturdy, was far from living flesh, and the steam could not resurrect these animunculi perfectly.

By the time Vinye and Malys had managed to shut off one valve each, about two-thirds of the initial wave of machines had been reanimated—two spheres, and around ten spiders. Few of them were in perfect working order; some still belched steam from improperly secured joints, and a few could not move as fluidly as they had before.

"Watch out!" Katria warned them; one of the sphere-men had taken advantage of the mages' surprise to draw a bead on Malys, and Cosette shoved her aside an instant before the fiery bolt would have pierced the vampire's skull.

"Thanks," Malys barely had the chance to mumble. Any further response to her apology, however, was lost in the sounds of renewed battle.

Fire, ghostly arrows, and lightning from both sides soon filled the chamber—the pitch of the battle had reached a level of intensity that none of the mages had ever experienced before, not even in Arkngthamz. Everyone was forced to divide their focus between the valves of rejuvenating steam and the flood of automata that continued to advance towards them, trying again and again to activate them.

Cosette took down four spiders with twin fireballs, scattering dozens of small parts to the far reaches of the cavern. Malys physically threw a fifth away from one of the valves before it could activate the mechanism; Vinye's lightning disabled it, and knocked the protesting machine away from them, and into the molten pool. Not long after, the Altmer targeted three spiders and one of the two remaining sphere-men with more bolts; these, too, were reduced to scrap metal in short order.

Finally, Katria was using Zephyr to prove that it could be just as useful in melee as in archery—she whacked one spider over its crown, dislodging the pinkish gem that sat within and causing the spider to crumple harmlessly to the floor. Barely one second after, she'd shot a volley at another spider; something shrieked inside its casing and that spider fell to pieces too. Finally, Katria hefted Zephyr like a club—and with a Nordic war cry, she charged forward and hit the last sphere dead center in the chest, knocking it backward with a final blast of steam.

The four women breathed a collective sigh of relief as the echoes of battle gradually faded away—but it was not over yet. The footsteps they'd heard earlier, like very heavy metal on very solid stone, had resumed in the silence.

"What now?" Katria wondered, as she looked warily around the chamber.

Suddenly, there was a rushing noise from behind them—like something huge had breached the surface of the magma. Vinye looked back at the source of the sound, and immediately wished she hadn't—but the mere sight of it all lent wings to her flight, as though Auriel himself had picked her up by the shoulders.

Malys and Cosette saw it too as they hid behind a stone partition, similar to the one Vinye had ducked under now, and both their faces drained of all color. Next to Vinye, Katria looked back at them, and then to whatever was holding their collective attention, and Zephyr dropped to the stone floor at nearly the same speed that her jaw did.

"Oh, _gods_ … " was all she could say at the colossal centurion that had emerged from under the lava, and still glowed from within as though the sun itself had been imprisoned inside its indestructible body. It was the most massive golem Vinye had ever seen—half as high again as the centurion they'd stared down in Arkngthamz.

And even with its incredible size, Vinye knew this centurion was special—it _had_ to be, to guard something so precious, and not have any discernable support. There were no other spiders, not even sphere-men or wasps. Where then, the Altmer wondered, was the centurion's guarantee of survival?

Her answer came as the construct pulled its head back, and unleashed a devastating breath attack—but even as Vinye threw up a ward to deflect it, she knew that wouldn't be enough.

As she had correctly surmised, this automaton was indeed _special_.

To her and everyone else's absolute astonishment, the centurion was quite literally breathing _fire_ —spewing an immense, nearly inexhaustible stream of flames so hot that they left foot-long scores in the stone, glowing red-hot from the intense heat. Vinye and the others just barely managed to get to safety with little more than smoldering robes.

"Unbelievable." Katria was aghast as she stared at this last obstacle. "That fire's so intense—we might as well be fighting a dragon!"

Vinye had to agree with that grim sentiment. But she had seen dragons before, and had stood closer to them than she was to the Forge. While she had no intention of ever fighting one, she also knew that what lay between them and the Forge was no dragon.

They could beat this—the only question left was _how?_

Cosette broke into a run suddenly, making her way to Vinye and Katria, strafing with firebolts all the while. The centurion answered with another massive gout of flame that came within inches of immolating the Breton as she dropped into a roll, catching herself mere inches from Vinye and looking rather annoyed, all things considered.

"Well, that thing's got some kind of fire cloak in its armor," she groaned. "My firebolts hit all the right joints—but they didn't even slow it down. Right now, Malys and I are worse than useless."

Even as she finished, though, a harsh grating noise came from the centurion, and all three turned to look at the mechanical monster. It was steaming slightly, more than it ought to—and Vinye saw the reason why as Malys sent a volley of ice spikes towards it. To everyone's surprise, the centurion stumbled as the icy missiles found their mark—but it was clear they weren't doing enough damage to punch through that thick armor. Vinye mentally congratulated Malys for finding a weakness in the centurion—but that wasn't the same as beating it outright.

They'd have to work together for this one.

And so, Vinye put together a plan. "Cosette," she began, "support us from the back. Let's hope your healing magic is up to scratch. Katria, you and I will draw its fire. Maybe we can soften this thing enough for Malys to land a killing blow."

The ghost shouldered her bow. "Got it."

Cosette wasn't so sure. "Maybe you forgot that Malys is a vampire?" she asked. "She's the most in danger out of all of us—if that fire so much as touches her, there won't _be_ a Malys left!"

Vinye raised an eyebrow. "I'm glad to know you care so much about her," she said dryly, before her eyes hardened. "Now get going—we might not have a second shot at this."

Cosette didn't bother to stammer out a reply—Vinye had already leapt out from her hiding place, bombarding the centurion with bolts of lightning in much the same way Cosette just had. At the same time, Katria moved in the opposite direction, firing arrow after arrow at the mighty _animunculus_. The centurion turned to one target, then another, but could not decide which one to attack first.

"It's confused!" Vinye called out to the others. "Keep at it! Cosette—it's now or never!"

But as Cosette ran to take her place behind Malys, something shifted in the centurion's stance. The curved plates that formed its shoulders shifted aside and upward, and the furnace within the golem began to glow even hotter as the centurion drew back.

Vinye only just realized what it was about to do. "Everyone down!" she screamed.

Barely a second after they took cover, the centurion erupted in flames. Massive gouts of fire, one from the mouth and another from each shoulder, sprayed from vents built into the construct's face and shoulders. Vinye felt the blast of heat wash over the stone gantry where she had taken cover—and somehow, incredibly, the stone was feeling warmer, like it could melt any second!

 _Fighting a dragon, indeed_ , thought the elf. She hadn't felt flames this intense since that night in Falinesti.

It was a few seconds after the inferno died down that Vinye judged it safe to reappear. Katria had survived, though looked no less the worse for wear. It was Cosette and Malys that Vinye were worried about, however. Both women were huddled closely to each other, and for a terrifying split-second, Vinye feared them both dead. But then she saw the faint shimmer of a ward spell flicker from both hands, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

However, this still was an inconvenience—resorting to a ward meant Malys no longer had sufficient magic to take the centurion down. They would have to buy some time—and Vinye knew just how she could do that.

She checked her satchel, and grimaced. Only a handful of potions remained inside—and only one that could help her with replenishing her magicka. But it would have to do.

Vinye downed a mouthful of this concoction, then, and felt the sweetness of moon sugar trickle down her throat, followed by a sour note of jazbay. There was something else mixed in there, too—the petals of some wild flower, perhaps—and she felt her insides tingle, and brim with magicka.

She hoped this magicka would be enough—or that potion might well be her last meal.

Not wasting any time, Vinye reached out into Oblivion with her hand, constantly mindful of where everyone around her was—Malys, Cosette, Katria, and the centurion—and then, when enough energy had been gathered into her palm, she slammed it upon the floor, opening a sizzling portal wreathed in purple flame. The storm atronach, thus summoned, immediately commenced its assault on the _animunculus_ with lightning and rock-hewn fists alike.

Now that her summons had been successfully conjured, and was distracting the centurion with equal success, Vinye now made her way over to Malys, and gave her the remainder of the potion she'd just drunk. "You'll need that," she told the vampire. "We've only got one shot at this—make it count."

Malys said nothing, but the look in her burning eyes was all the understanding Vinye needed. Without further ado, the vampire took the potion and drained the bottle, and stood up with some help from Cosette and Vinye.

"I can't just punch through that cloak," Malys confided. "I could make the biggest icicle in the world and it would still absorb the worst of it. But if I can hit the cloak from more than one direction, at exactly the same time … "

Vinye didn't have time to listen to strategies—that centurion could roast them all any minute. "Whatever you have in mind, Malys, do it!" she said, before bolting for a place to hide.

Her storm atronach chose that moment to dispel—the massive _animunculus_ smashed its hammer across the chest, pulverizing the electrified daedra into powder. There was a loud _bang_ , and the centurion staggered backward from the force of the atronach's detonation.

" _Now, Malys!"_ screamed Vinye.

Without a moment's hesitation, Malys brought her hands together, gathering as much ice magic as she could spare inside her palms, and rotating it around a single point. Then, she released it; a freezing whirlwind erupted from her hands, rushing for the centurion, growing and expanding all the while until the golem was completely engulfed in the mass of ice and super-cold air.

But Malys wasn't done yet—she fired a few more ice spikes at the centurion for good measure, and they struck the Dwemer guardian's face, chest and left shoulder. For a moment, Vinye wasn't sure if they'd done anything—until she heard a loud cracking noise—like a rock being torn apart by brute force.

She looked back at the centurion, and was awestruck at the cracks spreading from where Malys' ice magic had impacted the metal. Vinye felt a great rush of respect for the vampire as she analyzed the sight: Malys' first attack had been specifically intended not for the centurion, but for the cloak of fire imbued into its armor. This cloak could only protect against a small number of attacks—like sword blades or arrows—at any given time, perhaps even one at a time. But multiple small attacks over a short period of time could weaken the cloak—and with a machine that had spent four thousand years hiding in lava, Vinye thought, there had to be some sort of structural weak spot as well.

Malys' ice magic had turned the entire centurion into one big weak spot. The ice spikes had just been the final nails in the centurion's proverbial coffin, and the Altmer couldn't resist a cheer as the massive construct crashed to the stone floor. Several components—frozen solid when once they'd been superhot—shattered on impact with a sound like a thousand shattering windows.

"We got him!" Katria whooped, holding Zephyr aloft in victory. "I … almost can't believe it! We did it—we actually did it!"

Malys and Cosette were completely lost in the heat of the moment, embracing each other like they'd had just come home from a long, long war, not even caring whether they were living or undead. Only Vinye remained stoic—and even then, it was for a given definition of the word; even her memories of Falinesti dared not dampen her elation at what they'd just accomplished.

 _They'd done it_.

"There's only one thing left to do," Katria told them. "We have to prove that this actually works—that we really did just find the real Aetherium Forge."

"And how do we do that?" asked Malys.

"We forge something, of course!" Katria grinned. "We've got all the supplies we need—we could make a crown, a staff, a shield—anything we wanted!"

Cosette was looking around. "There's just one thing we need," she said. Her doughy face sagged in frustration. "We don't have a chip of Aetherium to our name. The dwarves didn't bother to leave any of that stuff around here." She kicked at a discarded gyro, punting it into the lava lake.

Vinye peered around the chamber, and saw that Cosette was right—there wasn't even a glimmer of blue-green to be found anywhere. There were shelves and chests that must have contained ingots of every material known to man or mer—but no Aetherium.

"Wait," Malys said. "We actually do have some—the crest we used to get in!"

Vinye's face brightened in recollection—Malys was right! Katria had mentioned that the shards used to put the crest together had been cut and refined from pure Aetherium.

The ghost was shimmering exceptionally brightly as Malys pulled out the crest and strode toward the forge, carrying it like a holy relic to an altar. "Go on," Katria urged them. "After everything we've done—after everything _you've_ done—you should do the honors."

"Or, perhaps," said a very familiar voice, "you should leave that part to the _professionals_."

Before anyone could react in surprise, there was a loud crack like a horsewhip—and Katria screamed as her ghostly form was dispelled like a faint mist. Her cry echoed around the chamber for long after she had disappeared.

And now Vinye, Cosette, and Malys whirled around to see the stone staircase rising back into its proper formation—and they supported three bodyguards, each one armed to the teeth. In their midst was a grinning Dunmer who descended the stairs like he had all the time in the world, and was now peering at the three mages with the look of a cat who'd cornered a whole nest of mice.

"Very good, Katria—very good work from all of you," said Taron Dreth in mock congratulations. "Now, unless you want to suffer the same fate my former colleague did, you will surrender and turn the Aetherium over to _me_."

* * *

_The Midden_

A thick haze pervaded the chamber, obscuring the guards completely, and even Drevis was lost to view from his assistants. But the Dunmer had faith in them all; he knew they would all perform their respective tasks admirably.

He sniffed the smoky air, and finding it to his satisfaction, he finally opened his eyes. The effect was visible; as long as this smoke inhabited this space, Drevis could sense every last drop of magicka inside it, as a haze of light blue that filled the air around him. Occasionally, this blue haze would collect as small little pools, which Drevis knew to be the reserves of each of his assistants with his enhanced eyes. Even the guards sent by Calcelmo contained some measure of magicka—even the most ignorant of Nords still possessed an aptitude for casting spells, however miniscule.

But there was a source of magic that far outstripped them all, even Brelyna's—indeed, there were multiple sources, which was especially concerning—and Drevis had a suspicion that if these unexpected wellsprings of magicka were all collected together, they would eclipse even those of Arch-Mage Grimnir himself in terms of sheer quantity.

What alarmed him most, though, was that each of these anomalies appeared to be somewhere within Solyn's gold. Where, he could not say—something in the burlap was dampening his scrye: a ward of some description, perhaps an anti-scrying enchantment. Drevis swore under his breath; whoever this Solyn was, he'd anticipated that his payment would be closely scrutinized.

Nevertheless, he had found one thing he had been looking for, and he relayed his findings to his helpers.

"Those septims are imbued with magicka?" Tolfdir repeated. "Well, now—this is an unexpected development. Can you tell which ones are and which ones aren't?"

Drevis shook his head. "That's why I've called you all here. I anticipated this would be the case, but I'm still at a loss as to _why_ we'd have to go this far. There's no other way—everyone here needs to open these bags, one at a time, so I can search inside, septim by septim. Opening these bags up ought to mitigate the enchantments Solyn placed on them, and so I should be better able to determine the nature of these coins, and the magicka they possess."

He snapped his fingers once at Calcelmo's guards, and each one grasped a bulging bag of money. One by one, then, they would place an opened bag in the circle, while Drevis turned his enhanced vision on the coins within. From a physical standpoint, they appeared identical to an officially minted septim, bearing the visage of Tiber Septim on its obverse, with the phrases "THE EMPIRE IS LAW" and "THE LAW IS SACRED" written in exactly the places Drevis knew them to be, and on the reverse was the crest of Akatosh, ubiquitous throughout the Empire even in its waning days.

In fact, the very strangest thing Drevis could say about these coins was that their texture felt a little grittier than might be expected—but even this was easily justified by the long travel time; after all, carriages were certainly no cleaner than the ash-blasted inside of a silt strider. And this went without mentioning all the detritus that was collected inside a Dwarven ruin like Rkund. Drevis was honestly surprised that this first bag wasn't half full of dirt as well as all these coins.

Which only made him more confounded as to the nature of what he was dealing with. For there was very little magic to be found on this coin, in sharp contrast to the veritable nexus of raw power he had sensed earlier—and even this might be merely residual magic, soaked up from whatever else was inside these sacks.

This was a real mystery.

And that made Drevis Neloren all the more determined to solve it.

* * *

Vinye's jaw was set, tight and grim, as Taron and his henchmen spread outward like the pincers of a chaurus, trapping the mages against the magma lake.

"That's impossible," Cosette said, stupefied by the sight. "There were half a dozen Forsworn chasing after you! We thought you were dead!"

"Half a dozen Forsworn?" Taron laughed coldly. "Six backward barbarians against three trained bodyguards and a master wizard of Morrowind? I could hold my own against six _hundred_ of their kind!"

"You don't look like you enjoyed it, Taron," Malys hissed, and Vinye thought the vampire had a point: Taron's bodyguards looked like they'd been through the mill. Their armor was scratched, dented, and black from mage-fire, and Taron himself had several bandages on his arms, and his robes were halfway to tatters.

"I knew that a band of Forsworn would be nothing compared to whatever might be waiting in Arkngthamz," Taron told them, "so I thought: why stick out my neck when I can have a few mages of Winterhold do it for me? All we had to do was give the Forsworn a merry chase, then lie low near the entrance to the ruins until we saw you leave. I'll admit I didn't expect _all_ of you to make it out alive—but imagine my surprise to learn that dear Katria was still walking around." He sniffed. "Even in death, the bitch still hates me with all her heart and soul. Pitiful."

Cosette's Forsworn blades were in her hands within the blink of an eye, and Vinye's hands were wrapped in sparks. "Katria was ten times the scholar you ever were!" the high elf spat in her anger. "I've met snakes in the Synod Council that had more of a conscience than _you!_ "

"There won't _be_ a Synod Council when I'm done," gloated Taron. "That Aetherium in your hands will secure both House Redoran _and_ the Mages Guild of Blacklight as unequaled in all of Tamriel. Once word gets out that _I_ was the one who brought it back, every other guild of its kind on the continent will drive itself bankrupt trying to claim this treasure as their own."

"Unless we stop you!" came a voice from behind them. Vinye spared only the quickest of glances, but it was enough to see that Katria's ghost had reformed—and that she was very angry indeed with Taron.

She strung Zephyr with an arrow, and aimed it straight at the wizard. "I've wanted to see you dead for two years," she hissed at her former companion. "I wanted them to show me your body before I could be satisfied—before I could finally rest. But it looks like they'll have to get in line after all!"

 _They?_ Vinye wondered. She saw Malys furrow her brow in confusion, too.

Taron didn't look too rattled, in any case. "You are lucky you and your friends aren't part of House Redoran, Katria," he sneered at them. "We know how to deal with _savages_." He snapped his fingers, and one of his bodyguards tossed a loosely tied sack in their direction.

The mages stared in disgust as the contents rolled out of the burlap—because the contents were staring right back. Six tattooed Forsworn heads—four of which were still wearing crude headdresses of bone, fur, and feather—tumbled to the stone. The wounds no longer bled, but the exposed bits of spine were encrusted with blood and viscera.

Vinye's hackles rose, and she felt the room grow warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the Forge or the magma; in her anger, she knew they were the same band of Forsworn that had attacked them near Arkngthamz. Two of the heads had similar tattoos to the ones Cosette wore … no, she thought belatedly, _they were identical_ —

The Altmer's breath suddenly caught in her throat, and Vinye slowly turned around to face Cosette as she realized exactly whom those heads belonged to. The Breton was still as a statue; her twin swords had clattered to the floor, and she was staring wide-eyed at the faces of her mother and father.

"I want them disposed of," Taron was instructing his bodyguards. "Dump them in the magma if you must—no one can ever know what happened down here. And if that Aetherium suffers one little scratch—it'll be _your_ heads, too."

The guards nodded, and unsheathed their weapons in unison—but Vinye was worried about something else entirely. Taron had no idea just what kind of repercussions his callous act of murder had set off in Cosette—and what he didn't know could very well—

" … kill … you … "

The room was getting hotter still—and Vinye, belatedly, realized that it wasn't because of _her_ anger. Cosette was trembling in pure rage; mage-fire was flickering in her hands, and blistering heat was radiating off her body. The Breton's eyes glowed like coals, and Vinye was beginning to suspect she needed to step away from Cosette _now_ —

"I'll _kill you_."

Even Malys looked scared by the sheer amount of venom in Cosette's voice, and both elves backed away slowly as the Culler's mage-fire now began to spread over her arms, her shoulders and her fiery hair, and even her whole body. The flames wrapped around her robes, licking at the superheated air that now seemed cool and refreshing by comparison, and transforming Cosette's appearance into something that was nothing short of demonic—

"I'll _KILL YOU!_ "

And suddenly the chamber was filled with more mage-fire than Vinye had ever believed one person could produce. The echoes of Cosette's malediction were drowned out completely by the roaring inferno that she was generating from her hands—and directing straight at the treacherous Dunmer.

Hjolgeir, the Nord, leapt in front of the firestorm, shield raised high in an attempt to protect his employer, but Cosette was hopelessly out of control now. She was pouring every ounce of her fury into those flames, making them burn brighter and hotter than any other mage could hope to make them. The constant barrage of fire turned the banded iron of the shield into molten slag within seconds—and the armor of the bodyguard with it. Hjolgeir had no time to scream before he was incinerated.

" _COWARD!_ " Cosette howled. She hurled a fireball at Taron; the searing blast reduced what little remained of Hjolgeir to a few smoldering embers. The Dunmer, however, managed to deflect it with a ward, though he was pushed back several feet in the process. That only made Cosette madder, and she launched another fireball with a war cry.

In the light of the inferno, Vinye saw Taron's red eyes shine with fear, and his screams of "Kill them! Kill them!" were those of a desperate elf, quickly lost in the noise of the mage-fire. His two remaining bodyguards, however, heard it well enough; they charged forward, and the battle was on.

It was a one-sided fight from the beginning. The mages were trapped between death by fire and death by the rapidly advancing sword—but there were several factors that Taron had clearly not accounted for. Cosette and her relation by blood to the Forsworn he had killed was one such major factor, and her unquenchable rage had already put the odds in the mages' favor. Another was Malys—even if Taron had suspected she was a vampire, there was no way he would have been able to plan for the unique bloodline of the Dunmer. Katria was yet another—that her echo continued to survive in this world had caught Taron off guard, Vinye knew, and the Nord's fury after the betrayal she had been through only added fuel to the fire.

And finally, all four of them had just emerged from a crumbling Dwarven ruin that could have killed them at any time. Inside, they had fought more _animunculi_ and more Falmer than any such place ought to have—and they had survived. Adding in the automatons that had guarded this Forge, all four women were still on the climax of an adrenaline high that walked hand-in-hand with the feeling that they could now take on anything the Divines could throw at them.

Putting all that into consideration, the fight _very nearly_ ended as swiftly as it had begun.

Malys wasted no time in leaping for Kemal with a snarl before he could bring his broadsword to bear. Wide, razor-thin shards of ice solidified over the vampire's hands, and she used these to draw and quarter the guard before sinking her fangs into his neck, draining the luckless, armless Redguard dry before shoving his withered husk against a wall.

Katria, meanwhile, used Zephyr like a sword to block the charges of the Breton, Dorian; whether because of its own spectral nature, or the dwarven construction that it had borne in life, the bow was withstanding every slash and thrust that Dorian made. Then Katria spun off to one side of the bodyguard and disarmed him, leaving Vinye wide open to finish him off—which she promptly did with a few bolts of lightning and a kick to his back. Dorian overbalanced, and fell on the ramp, sliding downward into the molten maw. He clawed and screamed like a man possessed, but the smooth-cut stone would have none of his argument, and Dorian was consumed by the magma within moments.

All this happened in a matter of seconds—and it took marginally less time for Taron's expression to change from desperate to downright furious. As he looked at the remains of what had once been his bought-and-paid-for retinue, and saw Vinye, Malys, an angry Katria, and an even angrier Cosette turn their weapons and magic to bear on _him_ , a scowl creased his ashen face, and his hands blazed with silver light.

"You would _dare_ to fight a Dunmer?" he shouted. As all four women launched their assault simultaneously, he erected a ward with _both_ his hands—Vinye knew that, as was the case with magickal attacks, magickal _defenses_ could also be strengthened, by using both hands to cast the ward. But she still doubted that four attacks could be stopped by one simple ward.

And then all four attacks were stopped by Taron's simple ward.

But even as Vinye closed her jaw from the shock, she noticed Taron wasn't just _stopping_ the attacks. As she looked on, Taron's ward was _changing_ , warping and wrapping around itself to encase fire, ice, lightning, and even Katria's arrow in the shimmering construct, compressing them all into a rippling sphere. Then the entire mass began rotating around that arrow, faster and faster, sharpening into a single blazing, swirling point that was aimed right at them.

Vinye swore under her breath. Taron was a cheat to the end; he was turning their own spells against them!

Then Taron released the ward, and the supercharged missile of magicka radiated out from his hands, straight for the mages. There was no way in Oblivion that all four of them could generate a large enough ward to deflect it all.

"Move!" Vinye yelled, and everyone ducked out of the way of Taron's attack, and the conglomerate of energy sailed into the molten rock. There was a massive explosion, followed by an expanding sphere of magma that came within inches of melting the stone floor under their feet. The heat was incredible.

"Bastard!" Katria spat, and loosed another arrow. Taron threw up another ward, but this one was much more short-lived; almost as soon as it had been generated, the ward was shattered, and only by ducking the arrow did Taron save his life. Unfortunately, this put him right in the path of Malys, who looked hellbent on inflicting actions upon the Dunmer that Vinye suspected might be classified as war crimes by even the Thalmor.

But Cosette would have none of it. She could no longer recognize friend from foe, so all-consuming was her fury. "Get away from him!" the Breton screeched at the vampire. "He's _mine!_ All _mine!_ "

"You've been a _bad boy_ , Taron Dreth," hissed Malys, licking her lips in pleasure as she bore down upon the dark elf. One of her hands formed a long, wicked blade of ice over it, and the other gathered some restorative magic that Vinye knew wasn't going to be for her.

She wasn't going to kill Taron, the high elf realized … she was going to _toy_ with him—as only a vampire who'd once made a living out of pleasure and pain truly could.

Before Cosette could say anything, Malys pounced on her traitorous kinsman, opening deep, long wounds from wrist to elbow on each arm, and a third along the spine that wasn't nearly as deep, but still made Taron roar in pain and drop to the floor.

"Damn you, Malys!" Cosette swore at the vampire. "I want to _kill him_!"

"Oh, I'm not going to kill him." The way that Malys purred the words sent cold shivers down Vinye's neck, even with the molten lake behind her. "I'm just going to make him _bleed_ for me … over and over and _over_ again."

Even as she spoke the words, Malys was healing Taron's extensive wounds, sealing the gashes and restoring the blood that had spattered the floor. The Dunmer wizard was initially confused, but upon discovering what Malys had done, he leapt to his feet defiantly.

"You'll wish you'd left me for dead, you filthy _s'wit_!" Taron roared. He launched a fireball at the vampire, but his fury made his movements easy enough for even Vinye to predict. For the heightened senses and awareness of a vampire like Malys, it was child's play to dodge Taron's attacks.

Malys leapt in close again, and sent Taron flying to the stairs with a brutal kick to the waist that made Vinye cringe and caused blood to dribble from the wizard's mouth.

"Mercy … " the Altmer barely heard Taron cough through the blood. _That was quick_ , she thought, with a mix of smugness and surprise at Malys' physical strength. "I yield to you, fetcher—I yield!"

"Malys, you've done enough!" cried Cosette. "Now let me end his miserable excuse for a life already—and if you don't get back, you'll be joining him, too!"

Unfortunately, neither of the two would get the chance to fulfill their desires. Some sixth sense of Vinye's was tingling, and she knew that _something_ was coming their way.

Something _very_ bad.

The next thing she knew, Vinye's entire world turned a burning, choking reddish-brown, swirling with a thousand drab colors and ten thousand rushing sounds, and all sense of direction Vinye had had was lost within moments. She heard a scream from a distance that could have been measured in either feet or miles—it was impossible to tell for certain. And whatever this was stung her eyes, too—it hurt just to keep them open, and finally her eyes and throat were so irritated that Vinye squeezed them shut on instinct and began coughing incessantly.

How long this went on, the high elf could not tell. By the time she was well enough to stop coughing and open her eyes back up, the blinding mass of brown had disappeared as swiftly as it had come—and Taron Dreth was dead as the proverbial doornail. His ashy face was tinged with blue, and his eyes bugged in terror—telltale signs to Vinye that he had been suffocated. Some kind of fine, reddish-brown powder leaked from his mouth, not unlike dirt, and Vinye wondered if that was his own blood—coagulated just like the bandits topside, solidifying in his throat and choking him to death.

She decided to test this hypothesis, and slowly withdrew Septimus' machine from her rucksack. She'd yet to collect any Dunmer blood for the old wizard's experiment, and she wasn't keen on using Malys' blood, vampire or no. But the machine, to her slight surprise, did not activate when held next to Taron's mouth—if this was indeed his blood, and not remnants of whatever was inside that cloud, Vinye thought, apparently the extractor could not steal it.

Then she moved it toward his arms, and she jumped in shock as the hollow cords snaked out of their sockets and bored into the dead flesh. This made everything seem doubly unreal to Vinye—she would have been shocked enough to find that all of Taron's blood had solidified in those few scant seconds, simply because a spell like that was incredibly inhumane and indiscriminant. A small effort of will was the only thing that had kept the same thing from happening to her—and everyone else in the room, no doubt.

This effort of will, likewise, was possibly how only a small part of the dark elf's body had been affected by this spell—while the clouds had filled the entire chamber, they'd only been concentrated in a particular location—the mouth and throat of Taron Dreth. Something about this scared Vinye even more than the arbitrary nature of the spell.

 _This level of manipulation … it's beyond master-level_ , she thought. _That's for sure_.

And now, that sixth sense in her mind was ringing an alarm bell again, and her head jerked upward at the entrance to the Forge. The stairs were still in their rightful place—but there was a figure descending them, clad in dark robes that went down to the boots.

 _Rolega?_ Vinye wondered, putting a hand under her eyes to block off the glowing magma from the grating below. The light was poor around the stairs; whoever it was, his or her face was completely obscured in shadow. But all three of them had remembered seeing the Nord thief before their descent into the ruins—at least, that was what they had thought. There had been some considerable distance between them—going by that, it could be anyone. And yet no one else had taken the time to stalk them from Whiterun to Falkreath and all the way _here_.

And then the figure's eyes flashed. A trick of the light, Vinye thought, as whoever this new arrival was crossed the room between then. But the glow in the eyes did not fade away; no, it almost seemed to be getting _stronger_ —

And suddenly, Vinye knew. The figure coming towards them wasn't Rolega.

It was Solyn.

* * *

Mistress Malys felt an uncharacteristic chill descend down Her spine as She watched Solyn float towards them, his arm still raised after how easily he had dispatched taron dreth. The wizard's robe was rather long, and covered his boots, but he moved so fluidly and so very little that there was no way he was walking normally.

"Who are you?" katria had already nocked an arrow on Zephyr. "What do you want?"

The burning gaze of Solyn glanced in the direction of the ghost, as if he was pleasantly surprised to know that the ghost was there. Then he flicked his wrist; there was a noise like thunder, and a rush of wind—and katria was dispelled again with a cry of shock.

"katria, no!" vinye cried out. The high elf's sparking hands went straight for Solyn—though she did not release any magic yet.

The glow of Solyn's hand changed, meanwhile, and cosette cried out in surprise now as her rucksack strained at the seams; Volendrung burst from her pack suddenly, and it sailed towards Solyn as if guided by strings.

"Give that back!" Malys yelled.

"That elf was mine, fair and square—you had no right to steal my kill, Solyn!" stormed the breton as Solyn took hold of the massive hammer.

Solyn merely raised an eyebrow in her direction. Now he directed his hand at the Forge, and it was Malys' turn to be shocked as the crest of pure, refined Aetherium was telekinetically yanked from her grip—and again right into his palm. Solyn looked over the artifact, mumbling to himself under his breath, all the while wearing the face of a man who had lost a piece of iron ore but stumbled on an entire mine of ebony in the process.

He smiled at them. "Thank you for your gift," he finally spoke—and then he raised his hand at the mages.

There was no warning, no other sign of his attack; one moment, he was shrouded in more of the thick brown clouds that had killed taron. The miasma spread throughout the chamber in an instant; the air became hot, choking—and horribly familiar to Malys, as this was nearly the exact same air She remembered having to breathe two hundred years ago, in that mass exodus from Suran … from Vvardenfell.

 _Ash_ , She realized. _Solyn could control ash with his magic_. There was something strange about that—but She never got the chance to think further on it.

The next moment, Malys cried out as a brief, searing pain flashed over Her skin, and Her limbs suddenly locked together. Her arms became rigid and unmoving, and Her legs refused to budge an inch. And then, in the time it took to blink, the clouds of ash had retreated—leaving behind a vampire encased in a shell of caustic ash.

_I'm trapped!_

This was not normal ash, Malys was sure—somehow She was still able to stand, but even with Her strength, She could not move. She was not alone, either; as She looked out of the corner of Her eye, She saw vinye and cosette were also encased in a thin coating of ash as well. Both of them were trapped like rats.

"Paralysis … spell," She heard vinye grunt. That explained it, then; Solyn's ash must be infused with alteration magic, binding it together so strongly that most victims were helpless—they couldn't move, they couldn't fight.

And trapped so far below ground, they couldn't expect any assistance to come, never mind shout for help.

 _They were alone_.

As Malys realized their predicament, She noticed the face of Solyn. Dark elves were naturally resistant to fire—though Malys, being a vampire, was much less so—but the sheer heat of the magma behind them was making them both perspire. And as She looked closer, She could see that the sweat on Solyn's skin was darker than the rest of him; it was a dark, ashy gray color, and ran down his flesh in rivulets, leaving behind …

… _What in the world?!_

The liquid dripped from the wizard's face, spattering on the stone, darker still than the floor on which they all stood.

 _That's not sweat_ , She realized. _That's_ dye _. Solyn dyed his whole body—it was just a disguise! But … why?_

The magma flared up suddenly, and for a moment Solyn's face was illuminated under his hood, and Malys saw that his skin was no longer gray, but a bright, deep gold—almost as bright and gold as his eyes.

And She understood.

_No … how? How is that possible! They've all changed—they're all gone!_

But there was no denying the sight She was seeing—there was no trick in the book that could fool Malys' vampiric vision. And yet …

"You're a _Chimer!_ " She whispered, shaking Her head in disbelief as far as the ash would allow Her. "How can you be a Chimer?!"

Solyn threw back his hood, revealing a bald golden head, with deep golden lips—no longer the ashy gray of before—that were split in a smile.

"Almsivi—the Tribunal of old—became greedy with power," he boomed. His deep, gravelly voice became magnified tenfold as it echoed off the carved walls. "They coveted Kagrenac's Tools, and used their power with the Heart of Lorkhan to become gods. But in so doing, they betrayed their friend Nerevar, and the Chimer became tainted—transformed into the Dunmer. All of them were converted."

His smile grew wider. "Save for myself."

"But _how?_ " Solyn's words had made Malys even more confused. "Why weren't you changed with the rest of us? Azura cursed every single Chimer in Tamriel— _why didn't she curse you?!_ "

"Isn't it obvious?" Solyn was still grinning; the shadows on his face from the molten lake made it look rather sinister. "I wasn't _in_ Tamriel when she cursed us. Or, more to the point … I wasn't anywhere on Nirn at all."

Malys was stunned. _What?!_

"I was in the Outer Realms—a separate space, where neither the Daedra nor the Divines can ever spread their influence. My master sent me there, and I was to return to Mundus only in the event of his death."

 _The Outer Realms?_ Mistress Malys felt that chill in Her spine slowly returning, despite her paralysis. She knew nothing about these Outer Realms—it was the first time She'd heard of them, surely. What Malys _did_ recognize was the phrase "neither Daedra nor Divine." It was familiar to Her, somehow, and she racked her brains for an explanation.

" … _Sealed where neither Daedra nor Divine shall ever tread … "_

 _Of course!_ She remembered— _arniel gane!_ She remembered the words that the shade of the breton, bound to grimnir's beck and call, had spoken to her that day. Until now, She had written them off as nonsense, the ramblings of a student who was ghostly at best. Now, though, Malys was beginning to wonder if arniel had known of this from the beginning—whether he had known of everything that Solyn had just told Her.

What else had he said? _"Thus the lost house survives … "_

_The lost house … Oh no._

"Who _are_ you?" Malys asked. Her voice shook with sudden fear, and though She tried to conceal it with bravado, the vampire had already felt Her eyes contract with a terror She had not experienced for two hundred years—not since Her first encounter with the undead, or even on the run from the fury of the Red Mountain.

_The lost house survives._

The Chimer's burning eyes flashed. "My name is Solyn … _Dagoth_ Solyn."


	17. XVI

XVI

 _Dagoth_.

Vinye had heard that name before, in her studies as a child. She had come to remember how the mere mention of that Great House of old had always been followed by war and atrocity—and _fear_. Now, to hear it whispered in her ear today—by no less a person than what must surely be the last original "Changed Elf" on all of Nirn—felt like the return of an ancient ghost … a shade scarred by battle and evil.

"You shouldn't even _exist_." Unable to turn her head because of Solyn's— _Dagoth Solyn_ , her mind corrected—paralysis spell, Vinye's gaze flitted to Malys, who had spoken just now. The vampire was quite literally torn between anger and terror at the golden elf before her: her bisected face bore either one emotion or the other.

"Nerevar wiped you out," spat the Dunmer. "He crushed your army thousands of years ago! Dagoth Ur himself was destroyed under the Red Mountain! And you expect us to believe the Sixth House isn't more than just a memory now?!"

"Of course not." Dagoth Solyn spoke more calmly than anyone who'd been exposed the way he had should have any right to. And yet, thought Vinye, the Chimer had not lost his composure once.

But then, "I do not expect you to _believe_ —I expect you to _watch_ the Sixth House become 'more than just a memory!'" Solyn cried out. " _That_ is the duty my father, the great Dagoth Ur, entrusted me to complete!"

Vinye was thunderstruck—and so, she noticed, was Malys. _Dagoth Ur had fathered a child?!_

Solyn strode over to the Aetherium Forge, glancing at its construction with his burning eyes. "I was conceived in absolute secrecy," he told them. "Lord Voryn—who you call Dagoth Ur—saw in me the culmination of his greatest and most elaborate plan of all … but he knew that if knowledge of me ever spread, then his designs would be for naught. And so he slew my mother, at her own request, and used his magic on me—sealing me inside the Outer Realms, where no god and no daedra could ever find me. No one by the name Solyn ever existed on Nirn for four thousand years—not even Divayth Fyr, that accursed sorcerer, could ever have hoped to discover me.

"For those four thousand years, I raised myself in those remote Realms. And all the while, I learned, I amassed, and I refined power the likes of which Tamriel has never seen," Solyn went on. "You know the history of what happened in that time: the War of the First Council broke out in Morrowind. Indoril Nerevar was slain in battle. The entire multitude of the Dwemer disappeared from Mundus. My father, though more so the Tribunal, coveted Kagrenac's Tools, and stole them. My people were cursed by Azura for their treachery, and it came to pass that my father, and his House, was eradicated by the Nerevarine—leaving myself as the only survivor of both House Dagoth and the _Chimer_ race."

He smiled. "All according to Lord Voryn's plan."

Vinye could not believe what she was hearing. Thousands of years and nearly three whole eras had passed over the course of these events. And now Solyn was telling them that they had been nothing but schemes—no, _collateral_ —for a scheme larger and more complex than any of them could ever have envisioned? Was he mad?

Solyn, meanwhile, had laid a hand on the Forge, and was feeding the crest the mages had assembled into a receptacle inside. The fingers on his other hand twitched, and several ingots and precious stones floated off the nearby shelves and into his grasp. These, too, he fed into the great machine.

"When the portal to Mundus opened inside the Realms," Solyn said, resuming his tale, "I knew the spell had been broken, and my father was dead. I sat staring at that portal for two hundred years before I finally mustered up the courage to return home, and learned what had transpired in the time since.

"And how much I learned!" Solyn went on. "The Oblivion Crisis in Cyrodiil, and the decay of its Empire—the destruction of the land I once called home. But most important of all, I learned the _true_ reason why my father did what he did in his last decades of his life—the construction of the golem Akulakhan."

Vinye finally found her voice. "And why was that?"

"You may know that Akulakhan, the Second Numidium, was intended to drive the outlanders of Morrowind to whence they came, and to conquer all of Tamriel. But," Solyn paused, turning a set of dials on the Forge, "I came to understand that Akulakhan's _other_ purpose was to be nothing more than a placeholder—a _puppet ruler_ , meant only to occupy the throne until the _true_ heir of House Dagoth returned from his exile."

Solyn sighed as he worked the Forge. "I can only imagine what Lord Voryn was thinking when he saw the Nerevarine for the last time," he said. "Perhaps he felt confident—dare I say, _joyful_ —as he stared death in the face? Or did he have some regrets that he would never live to see his own son become the ruler of all the world?"

Vinye could not turn her head far enough to look back at Solyn, but she wondered if the Chimer was crying.

But it did not last, and suddenly the golden elf was resolute once again. "It matters not," he said, activating a final switch. There was a whooshing noise from within the Forge, a great clattering of gears and pistons, and finally the sound of metal on metal as Solyn drew something out of the receptacle.

"I came to terms with my father's actions a long, long time ago," the Chimer's voice boomed over the din. "I know now that I was _born_ to succeed him. I need no other purpose in life than to finish Dagoth Ur's grand plan—to unite Tamriel and the world beyond under the standard of the Sixth House reborn!"

" _No!_ " Malys spat on the stone in desperate anger, and struggled against her ashy bonds with such strength that for a moment, Vinye wondered if the vampire might actually break free. "You were just a pawn, Solyn! Your own father _used_ you—don't you see?! You were _never_ a son to him!"

Dagoth Solyn raised an eyebrow. "If you have a point, young vampire," he said emotionlessly, cradling his new creation in his robes as though it was his own child, "I'm still waiting to hear it. And I think you'll find I'm far more valuable of a piece in _this_ particular game. You and your College, on the other hand, have long since played your part. I no longer require your services."

He turned to face the mages, now, and revealed his creation at last—and Vinye, in spite of her own fear and anger at how Solyn had betrayed the College of Winterhold and cheated the mages of their prize, was taken aback to see a _pickaxe_ , of all things, in his pale-gold hands. But a closer look revealed a number of Dwemer elements within the newly forged tool—and Vinye was quick to note how the tips of the pick sparkled with a familiar icy-blue color.

 _An Aetherium-tipped pickaxe_ , she thought. Already the Altmer could feel her trepidation returning as she analyzed the Chimer's invention. This was very serious. Aetherium could not be altered in any known way outside this Forge—nothing could even _break_ it.

Except perhaps _another_ , stronger, and more refined piece of Aetherium.

A moment of clarity suddenly filled Vinye's mind at this revelation: there must be more Aetherium out there, somewhere, and Solyn must know where it is. So long as he had access to the Forge, that single artifact could get him anything he wanted—a sword with an edge that could cut through anything, or access to magic that could destroy an entire Keep with the wave of a hand.

"By the way, _Mistress_ Malys," Solyn said with dissonant cheer, "Arniel Gane may have lost his body and mind, but he was still useful to me—more so than while he was alive. Though his sojourn to the Outer Realms had cost him his mind, he did help me to discover the link between Nirn and the Realms. So the next time you see _Master_ Gane, please give him my thanks, won't you? I'll even help send you on your way over—but I suggest you make haste."

 _What?_ "What are you talking ab—?!" But Solyn had already snapped his fingers before Vinye could finish her interrogation. For a moment, there was silence.

And then, there was nothing but bright purple fire.

* * *

For an instant, Vinye's world had been consumed by fire and sound. An instant after that, she briefly heard the sound of birdsong, and smelled the cool air of the Rift. She collapsed on the stone platform, realizing only for a moment that Solyn had deposited them outside the lift that led to the Forge. The better part of her brain was still trying to process what the Chimer had told them deep underground.

So absorbed were the mages in their own respective thoughts that it was a while before Vinye discovered that she could move her body again—the paralysis spell that Dagoth Solyn had placed upon them had worn off. She clambered to her feet with some difficulty, as her entire body was completely numb, but she was not concerned about that—they could move again.

"Finally!" Cosette's shout broke both elves out of their reverie—the Breton had not spoken since the spell had taken effect. "I'm going back down," she growled, as she stumbled towards the lift. "I'm going to slaughter that bastard!"

"Cozy, no!" Malys tried to intercept her, but the Forsworn Culler had already leveled one of her Forsworn blades at the vampire's throat.

"Malys, if you get in my way, I _will_ kill you," spat Cosette through clenched teeth. "I don't think you understand just how _angry_ I am right now. Taron Dreth just murdered my parents in cold blood. My family is _gone!_ My _clan_ is gone! I am the only Ionsaithe left in the _whole—entire—world_ —and I am beyond _furious!_ " She punctuated each word by bringing the point of her sword one inch closer to Malys' neck.

Vinye, meanwhile, felt a rush of sympathy among the dozens of emotions roiling inside her head. The Altmer wondered how long Cosette had been separated from her parents because of the duty she had been chosen to carry out—knowing full well that her parents could easily have been purged from the Forsworn as well.

"I was well within my right to paint the Forge with Taron's blood," Cosette raved on. "I wanted to spit him on a pike and roast him alive for what he did to my family. But Solyn cheated me—because of _him_ , I can never kill Taron now. There's only one thing for it—I'm going back down there, and I'm going to _destroy_ that damned wizard if it's the _last thing I do!_ "

"You don't know House Dagoth like we do—like the dark elves do." Malys' voice was suddenly very cold. "That cursed House is the reason _why_ we're dark elves in the _first place!_ They have power, Cozy, more than you could ever imagine." Her expression suddenly softened, and she looked pleading. "If you go down there, and if you try to face him one-on-one, it really _will_ be the last thing you'll ever do."

In spite of the Forsworn blade still hanging there, Malys moved herself closer, and a tiny drop of blood appeared on her gray neck as the tip of the sword just barely pierced the skin. "Cosette," she whispered, "don't do this."

"I don't often say this about vampires—but she's right." Everyone turned to see Katria reclining against the lift. Her ghostly face looked as sorrowful as she sounded—and Vinye couldn't blame her; Katria must be feeling just as cheated as they were after how long and how far she had gone to find the Aetherium Forge. "This Solyn you guys ran into is a nasty piece of work. I don't know much about these Dagoth types, but I know that going up against him right now is suicide. And you don't want that, do you?"

She was speaking to Cosette, whose sword-arm wavered more and more as Katria's question sank in. "Maybe you'll get your chance yet," Katria pressed on encouragingly, "but now isn't the right time or the right place."

Cosette said nothing for a long time, before finally spitting on the stone in annoyance. "I hate it when other people are right," she grumbled, lowering the blade away from Malys.

"I'm sorry, Katria," Vinye apologized. She did not dare to look at the ghost, who let out a long sigh.

"There was no way you could have known," said the Nord with a shrug. "Besides, there's a silver lining to all this—we finally found the Forge. We know that it works. That was all I lived for—and died for—and maybe it didn't turn out the way I wanted, but I've already done what I said out to do. I can finally rest in peace now."

She heaved herself off the wall, and looked the mages directly in the eye. "One last favor from me—I promise I won't bother you any more after that," she whispered. "When you feel you're ready, I want you to find Solyn. Find him, and kill him, and make sure our discovery will never fall into the wrong hands again. And when you do, tell the whole world about what you did—what _we_ did, and what we discovered _together_."

Vinye nodded. "We will," she said thickly, internally wishing Katria could stick beside them for a while longer yet—the ghost had come to grow on her in the short time since they'd met.

But Katria was beginning to fade now, much quicker than in Arkngthamz. "Farewell," she echoed, bringing her right fist to her heart in what Vinye would later learn was a gesture of respect. "Kynareth be at your back, wherever your travels take you."

There was one final sigh, and then Katria was gone—leaving behind a very loud silence that no one dared to break for a very long time.

Vinye did not know if it was minutes, or whole hours, before she decided to break that silence, but a thought had come to her in the wake of Katria's departure.

"Cosette," she asked cautiously. "You said you were the last of your family just now—but back in Whiterun, you said you met them on the way to get Spellbreaker as well?"

The Breton huffed. "Depends on how you define 'met'. When I summoned Peryite, he had me clear out this Dwarven ruin that one of his worshippers was hiding out in—some wood elf that had betrayed him. But he never told me that most of my clan would be in there, too."

Cosette looked nothing like the rage-filled berserker she'd been beneath the surface of the earth as she sat down. "That absorbing magic you've seen me use before—the one I said was a trait of my family—it's a defense," she said, "the most _perfect_ defense in all of Tamriel. Peryite wanted to find a way past that—create a disease so wasting that no magic could slow it down or stop it." She paused, and sniffed. "He found it."

Vinye tasted something sour in her mouth as she realized what had happened. Now she understood why Cosette had reacted the way she did in Whiterun—why she had taken offense to Vinye's comments on her family.

_You don't get to talk about my family! You haven't earned the right!_

And the high elf also remembered how Cosette, just before her drunken rage, had told her she'd "met the family."

A hundred apologies raced through the elf's mind, but all she could produce was a hesitant "I'm sorry."

"Don't." For a moment, Cosette's eyes had flared. "I can't believe I'm echoing a _Nord_ , but there was no way I could have known they were down there. There's no sense in apologizing now, Vinye. I did what I needed to, and I made sure that Peryite suffered for it. He killed my clan, not me. So in return, I killed his priest, and I destroyed his shrine and everyone who worshipped there. As far as I'm concerned, I've evened the score—and that's all I'm going to say about that."

That was a funny way to look at evening the score, thought Vinye—the influence that the Aedra and the Daedra had over Nirn depended on how strongly they were worshipped. Perhaps there were other worshippers of Peryite in the world, but if there weren't, then Cosette had effectively "killed" a Daedric Prince—banishing him from Skyrim and preventing his influence from returning there until someone decided it would be a good idea to worship him again.

As the Breton sat back down, so did the two elves, and the vampire grunted as she shifted her pack. "Bal's _blood_ , this is heavy," she groaned as she plonked her frame between Vinye and Cosette. "So what do we do now?"

"We can't just sit here forever," replied Vinye. "The High King needs to hear about this as soon as possible. A brand-new House Dagoth could mean the end of Tamriel as we know it. Skyrim just started to recover from a civil war—there's no way they're prepared enough for this."

She stood up abruptly. "We'll make for Ivarstead," Vinye told them resolutely. "From there, we can take passage to Windhelm, and tell High King Varulf of the threat we're all facing."

" _You_ can meet him," huffed Cosette. "I wouldn't set foot in that city even if it meant the Forsworn would take the Reach for sure."

The high elf shook her head. Was Cosette still hell-bent on this Forsworn business? "Solyn thinks that he can conquer all of Tamriel," she told her. "He won't just stop at Skyrim. He'll drive anyone who resists as far as he can make them run—even into the sea if he has to. You of all people should know that the Forsworn aren't invincible."

Cosette growled. "Of course I know," groused the Breton. "I only said I wouldn't set foot in Windhelm—I didn't say I wasn't coming with you. I know when I'm in over my head, Vinye—I'm not _that_ thickheaded."

 _Said the woman who nearly charged down a Chimer and a Dagoth to boot_ , Vinye thought dryly as she stretched her sore body. "If we're all in agreement, then we'd better make it to Ivarstead. It's almost midday—if we leave now, we could be in Eastmarch by this evening."

Malys cracked her neck as she got to her feet as well. "Can we stop for something to eat along the way? I feel like that Redguard down there wasn't filling enough for me." She didn't hear Cosette suppress a gag as she hoisted up her rucksack, and Vinye decided she would not dignify that question with a response as the three mages began their short journey north.

But they hadn't even gone ten paces before Malys suddenly stopped. "That's weird," muttered the vampire, patting the burlap with a free hand. "I could have sworn this thing weighed almost as much as me … what the—?!"

A faint rustling noise informed the mages why Malys' pack had become so lightweight: the Dunmer had apparently tried to pack in too much for the journey throughout Skyrim. Add that to a few odd trinkets over the course of their trek, and it was no wonder that the rucksack had burst.

What _was_ a wonder, however, was what came spilling out of the pack—a glowing, grayish-brown powder, finer than even sand. Already a sizable pile of the substance had formed to one side of Malys, and the Dunmer groaned as she set the still-leaking mass of burlap on the ground.

"Solyn's ash," Malys seethed. "Unbelievable. Some of it must've gotten trapped in the pack when he put that paralysis spell on us. Damn it, damn it, _damn it all_ —I'm going to have to replace Azura only knows how many of my potions, food's all contaminated—ugh, and it's all over my robes, too!" she cried out, patting the black cloth over her backside, sweeping off yet more of the filth. "It's all _worthless_ now!"

Malys kicked aside the now-useless rucksack in her annoyance and her haste to dust herself off, and the bag of spoiled rations and potions landed on the earth with a dull _whump_ , several feet from the largest luminescent ash pile.

The ash moved.

No one noticed it at first: all three women had Ivarstead and the journey to Windhelm on their minds, and the ambient noise around them—the wind, the birdsong, and the odd noise of fauna on the forest floor—was initially loud enough to mask its presence. Even when they heard a low, guttural growling noise behind them, the mages had assumed it might be a fox.

So when Vinye, who was bringing up the rear, turned around involuntarily to notice what was _actually_ behind them, she therefore screamed loud enough to surely be heard all the way up to the summit of the Throat of the World.

It certainly _resembled_ a human, but only in form and stance; from there, any similarities ended. Its naked skin was dry and cracked, as though it had been carved very crudely from rough sandstone—by an artisan who had merely the slightest clue what a human was supposed to look like. Soft orange light shone from its two blank, wide eyes and from somewhere within its chest, and radiated a haze of heat that distorted its form further still. A crude imitation of a mouth produced the growling she'd initially mistaken as a fox—but now sounded like a corpse who was trying to breathe through a layer of dirt.

Cosette and Malys whirled around at Vinye's scream, and instantly both had magic in their hands as the creature raised a nasty-looking stone dagger in its hand.

"BACK!" Vinye felt the Breton shove her aside right as the creature's jagged blade sailed through the space where her neck had once been. Cosette followed up her attack with gouts of flame from both hands, while Malys supported her with a constant stream of super-chilled air. The barrage of simultaneous heat and cold could break any defense over time—quite literally so: the sheer difference in temperature between the two elements would shatter it like glass.

Clouds of steam erupted from the contact of fire and ice on … _whatever_ it was, and Vinye fired several bolts into the vapor. There was silence, but none of the mages dared to lower their guard.

Their caution was well warranted: barely a second later, a gust of wind—apparently coming from within the steam—had dispelled the mist, revealing the humanoid shape; the assault had not damaged it one bit.

"Not even a scratch on that thing!" Malys was incredulous.

"I don't think any magic is going to work on it," Vinye called out to them. She fired a third bolt just to be sure, hitting the monster in the left shoulder—just in case her first two might have missed the mark. It didn't matter—the creature stumbled once, but Vinye's lightning glanced off it without any apparent effect.

"Run!" Malys was already making her way north to Ivarstead. Vinye knew what she was trying to do, and immediately set off in her wake—the Ivarstead guards could perhaps deal with this thing, if it was to follow them.

Again, no such luck: the creature lifted its hand, and fired an orange bolt of light that didn't quite look like fire. But the effect was immediate; as the missile hit a fair-sized tree right in front of them, the entire trunk splintered on impact, throwing shards of smoking wood in every direction. The damaged tree crashed to the ground a few seconds later.

 _Apparently we're not leaving without a fight_ , Vinye thought. She unclipped Kinsbane, and brandished it in her right hand as she called out to the other two mages. "Cosette, swords! Melee's our only chance! Malys—support us both from the back with your healing spells! This could be a long fight!"

No sooner had she spoken, though, than Cosette had already unhooked both of her Forsworn blades and charged straight for the monster. The Breton was a miniature whirlwind of stabbing and slicing; as she drew level with the creature, that whirlwind suddenly lashed out. One moment and a war cry from Cosette later, one of the blades had hacked right through the humanoid's right arm. It tumbled to the ground with a _whump_.

But Cosette was not done. The momentum she'd gained during the charge had put her nearly directly behind the creature—right in its blind spot. Vinye saw an opportunity, and promptly hurled Kinsbane with a grunt. The elven dagger buried itself hilt-deep in the monster's throat—but it didn't even stumble.

Vinye might have been worried about this development in any other situation, but the dagger had been a ruse: by the time the creature had reached to pluck the offending object out of its windpipe, Cosette had already begun her _coup de grace_. The Breton swung wide with both her blades, slicing deep into the creature's torso. The monster let out a loud, gurgling roar—and disintegrated into dust before their eyes.

There was a long moment of stunned silence before Cosette finally spoke up. "That was exhausting," she panted, as Vinye slid Kinsbane into her belt once more. "I barely managed to make all that swordplay pay off, it was so heavy. Whatever he was made of was pretty densely packed—it was like trying to cut through wet sand."

Malys found her voice. "What _was_ that thing?"

"One of Solyn's, I just know it," Cosette grunted. "He obviously didn't want to leave any witnesses. Didn't you hear what he told us before he snapped us out of the ruin?"

Vinye had. _I suggest you make haste_. "But that doesn't explain where in Magnus' name it came from!" she pressed on.

"I know where it came from." Malys was kneeling down, inspecting some of the residue left behind by the monster. She did not sound happy as she ran some of the fine powder through her fingers. "And you're right, Cozy. This is definitely Solyn's work—it's more ash. But it isn't the same ash that he used for that paralysis spell. The magic surrounding it is different—I'd guess a reanimation spell of some kind."

"If it isn't from that spell," Vinye wondered, "then where—?"

The vampire was already turning her pack inside out, tossing potions and various odds and ends all over the grass. "I'm afraid I might know that too," she muttered. "But I'm really, _really_ hoping I'm wrong." She studied a piece of torn fabric. Vinye thought she caught the drawstring of a coin purse.

Apparently, this must have been very disturbing to Malys, because the vampire had just stumbled back with a number of oaths to all manner of the Daedra. Both halves of her cloven face were locked in an expression of horror.

"Oh, no," she whispered. "I was right—I know where that monster came from."

She drew her hand inside the ruined cloth, and withdrew a single septim from within. But Malys closed the coin inside her fist; when she opened it back up, there was yet more of that brown ash.

Cosette was looking back and forth from the Dunmer to the ash pile on the ground. "Malys." She spoke slowly and deliberately, and her round face was quickly losing the little color it had left with each passing second. " _Where did you get that coin?_ "

"I got it—I got _them_ from … " And now it was Malys' turn to stutter. "From … "

"From?" Cosette put her hands on her hips, and Vinye thought she would have looked intimidating if she weren't already scared half to death.

Malys swallowed. " … From those sacks in the Midden." Her face sank lower and lower with every word she spoke. "I … might've … swiped a handful of coins when no one was looking … "

Vinye was about to launch into an angry tirade about how Malys had been stealing what was, strictly speaking, College property—and point out how she had apparently not learned her lesson after the Arch-Mage had caught her red-handed with Keening in his own bedchamber.

But just as she was about to open her mouth, something clicked in her head.

And all of a sudden, everything made sense.

She didn't quite understand _why_ , but Vinye now knew _what_ Solyn was planning—there was a reason why he had paid them so handsomely when they'd only been able to find Keening—only one single artifact. Before, she had guessed it was because of the legends and infamy that surrounded it, of its role in past history—of the untold power it had possessed. But none of those were the reason for it at all.

Those sacks of septims weren't Solyn's reward—they were his _revenge_.

Vinye suddenly felt sick. "Change of plans," she whispered, her voice shaking more than the tonal lock had shaken Arkngthamz. "Forget Windhelm, forget the High King. We have to get to Winterhold, _fast_."

"What about Solyn?" Cosette protested. "At the very least, we need to find out where he's gone!"

"Never mind him—the College is more important right now," said Malys. The vampire had gone white in the face, and had obviously come to the same conclusion as Vinye. She put as much emphasis as she could into her next words to underscore just how _deeply_ in trouble the mages were:

"Because Dagoth Solyn is about to wipe it off the face of the earth."

* * *

_Rkund_

The constant drone of machinery was the only sound that echoed within the Reliquary. The great doors to the sanctum had opened, and then closed again, and for the past three hours, there had been no other break from the constant, rumbling song. Darkness shrouded the chamber completely: the braziers and the gas lamps that normally illuminated it had been extinguished so as not to interfere with what was presently taking place.

Dagoth Solyn had not moved in the time since he had teleported here from the Aetherium Forge deep underground, and sat down in the midst of the three plinths that had been carved to house Kagrenac's tools. Right now, neither the Forge nor the tools were the foremost thoughts in his mind.

In spite of the Chimer's considerable power, the liminal barriers of the Outer Realms still took time and care to scrye. There were only two ways out of that space—and one had been forged by his father's magic. But _that_ had deposited Solyn in the vast, smoking crater that had once been the Red Mountain—so great was the eruption of Vvardenfell that the Dwarven citadels under the mountain had been completely pulverized. Nothing remained of his father's legacy there save for ash, and the foul wind that carried it.

At first, Solyn had been distraught—the last of the Sixth House had wept there, inside the crater, with none left to witness but the gods themselves. He had allowed himself that one moment of mortality, of weakness—before he rose up from the cracked and lifeless ash. He knew, in time, that this ash would bear new life. Vvardenfell would be verdant and prosperous once more, and it would once more be the seat of House Dagoth, as it had in those days.

As for Rkund … Solyn knew now why it existed, why it was designed the way it was—and why he had been destined to enter its deepest reaches from the beginning. There was _something_ below the Reliquary—something below the point where even the Dwemer could not dig. But they had dug there—and Solyn, just before his journey to the Forge, had discovered who had told them to do it.

Yes: the rebellion and desertion of those Dwemer clans had been a ruse, covered up perfectly by the passage of time—and countless tons of ash. Lord Voryn and the rest of House Dagoth had sown the seeds of dissent, and convinced a number of the Dwemer that their race was destined for destruction. Thus had Dagoth Ur turned them away from the designs of their Tonal Lord Kagrenac, and instructed them to construct the citadel of Rkund as their fortress—the perfect fortress for the legacy of House Dagoth—to ensure their protection from the apocalypse that was to come.

When he had discovered and deciphered the incriminating tomes inside what remained of Rkund's library, Solyn _knew_. He had felt a great rush of affection for his father, who had given his life and immortality, his power and designs, and passed on the proverbial torch to his only son.

The proof of this lay before him, suspended in midair by the magic in his hands: a rough, rocky sphere, slightly larger than a man's fist, scored with cracks that glowed from within with the light of Red Mountain. For that was where Solyn had first discovered them; the eruption had scattered them as far north as Solstheim, and even as far south as the northernmost reaches of Black Marsh. The dark elves had been quick to call them _heart stones_ for many reasons; the common Dunmer believed they were the essence of the heart of their old home of Morrowind—while the mystics of House Telvanni had been quick to call them the essence of the Heart of Lorkhan instead.

But Solyn knew differently—they were the essence of something else entirely: the heart of his father. And so he had made use of them, and had learned how to tap into the ancient magic of the Sixth House that had fused with the blasted remains of Red Mountain.

Which was exactly what he was doing right now.

A sudden spike of that magic suddenly alerted Solyn: the _other_ pathway from the Outer Realms to Nirn—had been bridged. He concentrated his magic into a metaphysical spike, driving it through, widening the gap between planes in the place where the boundary was at its weakest: the tortured shade of a certain Breton wizard.

Arniel would neither go quietly nor without a fight, but there was no wizard in Tamriel—perhaps in all of Mundus—that could best Solyn for sheer aptitude in the arcane arts. The art of transliminal mechanics was child's play to the Chimer, and before long the liminal barrier that separated the two realms had been diverted to his desire.

This task complete, Solyn now waited a few interminable moments more, allowing his magickal energies to naturally recharge. He would not have much time to waste, as the heart stones from the Red Mountain—while gifted with enough extraordinary magic to alter the nature of the barrier, were far from the hyperagonal media needed to construct a more permanent transliminal gateway. But they would serve their purpose here—because it just so happened that Solyn knew where in Mundus to find a perfect hyperagonal medium.

And so he reached outward with his magic, allowing it to fill every nook and cranny of the Reliquary around him. Within the shadows that veiled it, something responded—then a second, and finally a third. Beady yellow eyes pierced the blackness, and a cacophony of dry, gurgling growls filled the room.

This would do.

Only then did Solyn finally move. It was not a drastic movement—merely a slight twitch of the fingers of his left hand—but it was enough. The heart stone bobbled slightly, but continued to levitate before him as flames the color of amethyst began to erupt from behind him …

* * *

_Winterhold_

_…_ _Sand is nothing but the weathering of rocks, older by far than any of the living inhabitants who claim a land as "theirs." As each rock breaks further, more of its inner space is revealed, until it is practically naught but exposed surface in its aggregate self. This collective then scatters, intermingles, scatters, and repeats, in infinite combinations so long as Nirn continues to exist. If we believe, as I do, that the rocks themselves contain remnants of Magnus' gift, then this exposure and combinatorial explosion results in a breadth and diversity of magic energy as is unknown elsewhere in Tamriel …_

Grimnir Torn-Skull set aside the tome with a groan. He had taken up reading for the better of these past few weeks as a means to order his thoughts. However, try as the Dragonborn might, the words of Afa-Saryat continued to elude him; his mind was focused on other things.

So far as he knew, Drevis, Phinis, and Tolfdir were still down in the Midden, looking through the tens of thousands of septims given to them by Solyn. Calcelmo had followed through on his promise, meanwhile, and was sending another dozen of his personal guard from Markarth to Winterhold. Grimnir estimated they would arrive sometime tomorrow morning.

Yet he could not help but wonder if they might be enough. For the first time in over two hundred years, all three of Kagrenac's tools had been reunited—artifacts that had been created specifically to tap into the heart of a dead god. And they were only a hundred feet below his boots.

He heaved himself up from the desk with a grunt, thinking it was time he brewed himself some tea.

As he made his way to the laboratory nearby, Grimnir allowed himself a taste of the world outside his sanctuary. He faintly heard the burning and sizzling sounds of magic below—that was Faralda and Colette, he knew, helping to further test yet another new swarm of hopeful initiates into the College—followed each time by a faint rumbling growl: Urag found it very difficult to concentrate with all this noise, and had more than once come to complain to Grimnir on the matter.

To be fair, Grimnir had tried to do his part, for entirely different reasons. The fact of the matter was that so many of these applicants had crossed over the bridge in the last week that the Arch-Mage had been forced to turn many of them away. It wasn't for lack of skill, either—but for all its newfound fame, the College simply did not have "the space or the resources necessary to house and educate so many novices at this time," he recalled from memory; he'd had to write the same unapologetic notice of rejection to the point where he had had to have Colette, bless her heart and skill, see to his aching hand.

Grimnir hoped that situation would change. Magic was still a deeply misunderstood force in Tamriel, especially in Skyrim, his home; even those who called him a hero and a legend knew precious little about the magic unique to those few who were born with the Dragon Blood.

Presently, he stopped at the laboratory, and proceeded to collect a few odds and ends for his tea—a pinch of bone meal, a bit of blood from a Dremora's heart, and some honey and lavender for taste. It had been a gift from Neloth during one of Grimnir's sojourns to Solstheim, when one of their conferences on the ins and outs of the arcane had devolved into an exchange of some of the more outlandish tea recipes that the Telvanni wizard had drunk in his day.

Grimnir had privately reflected that there might be some merit to Solstheim's claims of Neloth being a madman.

But to his surprise, the Arch-Mage had found that this tea quite suited him perfectly. Dragonborn Grimnir might be, but he was getting on in years—and one pot of the strange brew helped him to feel like a mage at the peak of his prime once more.

He prepared the ingredients, and heated the kettle, thinking he might see Drevis in the Midden after he'd had a cup or so, and check on the Dunmer's progress below. For now, though, he decided to resume his reading. The Arch-Mage strode back to his desk, where _Wind and Sand_ still lay, and resumed where he'd left off:

_Much as the sand learns from every grain around it, so too does the air, which conveys it from one combination to the other, absorb the sense-knowledge of its carried grains. In fact, it is plausible that the air itself is guiding the combinations to novelty and expression. Indeed, consider that in the Nordic tradition, Kyne is the widow of Shor (an aspect of Lorkhan), then her ministrations (via wind) to his physical legacy within Mundus could be seen as a form of celestial mourning, from which we mortals can benefit._

_It would seem, indeed, that the next level of magical awakening may well be—_

A sudden, loud noise caused Grimnir to leap to his feet, sending _Wind and Sand_ tumbling to the floor. The Dragonborn watched in confusion as a bluish-white portal exploded into being before his eyes.

In any other situation, Grimnir would not be confused, nor would he even be worried. Those bluish flames were unique to only one summons he had ever encountered—and Grimnir could summon him simply by uttering his name.

Except he had done no such thing.

But regardless, what little remained of Arniel Gane was quickly materializing before his eye, and the insane shade of the Breton looked in dire straits indeed. "The devil wakes!" he cried out constantly, ghostly hands to his ears and stumbling wildly inside the shimmering portal. His otherworldly voice echoed off the rafters. "The devil wakes! The devil wakes! _The devil wakes! The devil wa—_ "

There was a noise like a white-hot spear piercing a thick sheet of ice. Arniel Gane turned over his shoulder, showing Grimnir the sizzling dagger that had suddenly pierced his throat, and disappeared with a final moan.

But his portal did not—and now, Grimnir heard footsteps. Solid ones, too—not from a ghost—and belonging to more than one owner.

The portal now flared, and the Arch-Mage was forced to don Morokei—one of the eight masks in his collection, belonging to the dragon priest who had once ruled Labyrinthian with an iron fist—to shield his eyes from the light.

When it subsided, and the portal faded into nothingness, Grimnir lowered his hand from his mask—and his confusion augmented further still as he saw the beings that had emerged in Arniel's wake—tall, bipedal, with a hellish glow that lit their earthen bodies from within.

He knew what they were—he'd seen these creatures before. But that only raised further questions—what in the name of Akatosh were _they_ doing _here?!_

Grimnir's hands instinctively erupted in magic—one with super-chilled air, another with lightning—and he sent a thunderbolt right into the chest of the lead monster, and a long spear of ice into the one on its left, the one that had stabbed Arniel. The creatures staggered back from the force of the spell, but otherwise appeared unhurt.

That vexed the Arch-Mage severely—the creatures he had faced years ago were nearly immune to fire magic, but not to ice or lightning. _These_ were different than before; they were all but immune to conventional destruction spells now—and Grimnir wondered if they had learned since he had been to Solstheim, if perhaps they had adapted, gotten stronger and smarter.

This was a problem—he would need to use more _unconventional_ magic against them.

He inhaled, and drew himself backward, concentrating every ounce of his unique magic into his throat.

" _Fus … Ro DAH!_ "

It felt as if he was a young lad again. The first Words of the dragon language that Grimnir had ever learned echoed through the hall. Then there was a clap of thunder, and a blue wind that filled the hall in seconds and sent the monsters flying into the opposite wall. One of them hit a window, which shattered against its weight—but the creature carried on, propelled away from the College by the force of Grimnir's Voice.

It was a long way down to the Sea of Ghosts.

The other two, meanwhile, slowly stumbled to their feet. One of them fired a salvo of firebolts from its hands at Grimnir, which he easily deflected with a ward. The Arch-Mage was more worried about its companion, which had just brought its clawed hands together with a snarl, producing a jagged, glowing weapon from within its palms that resembled a very heavy spear. This it brandished at Grimnir with both hands, wielding it like a claymore.

The Arch-Mage responded by enveloping his hands in violet flames. He spread them out at arm's length, waiting a dangerous split second before releasing the spell. There was one amethyst-colored explosion, then another—and two spectral wyrms arose from the purple fire, circling their glowing serpentine bodies around Grimnir.

He flicked his wrists, and the wyrms were upon his opponents with a snarl, binding the monsters tightly and crushing them in their grip like a snake would its meal. It only took ten seconds for them to disintegrate into dust from the force of Grimnir's summons, weapons and all—but Grimnir knew that wasn't dust collecting on the floor.

Before the sounds of battle had dissipated, his fingers had already begun to glow with a warm amber color, and Grimnir directed his hand at the piles of ash, searching with his magic for anything larger than an apple. Within seconds he found it—a dark ball of rock, slightly smaller than his fist, that glowed with a deep red light. One in each pile of ash, one for each monster—including, he assumed, for the one he had shouted out of the window.

These rocks, too, he recognized—they were not uncommon in the desolation of Morrowind and Solstheim. Indeed, some of the more powerful wizards of the region had funded mining operations to extract them from the hardened ash, so they could—

The septim dropped.

And now, Grimnir was worried enough by the magnitude of what he'd just figured out that he didn't hear Faralda's footsteps until the Altmer was right beside him.

"We heard you shout from the lecture hall," gasped Faralda in her exhaustion from running. "What happened up here?"

Behind the mask of Morokei, Grimnir's face tensed. "Find Colette at once. Tell her to gather all the students and staff in the Hall of Attainment. Then sound the alarm and make haste to Winterhold!" he ordered. "Alert Jarl Korir that the College is under attack!"

Faralda dared not argue with him. She took one look at the piles of ash on the floor and ran out of the room. Grimnir followed close behind her, his eye set on the Midden, Tolfdir, and all the magickal might he could spare. He knew what he had just faced in his quarters was merely an advance guard—scouts for the larger, deadlier force.

But the Dragonborn did _not_ know how _near_ that force actually was—or that he was walking right into a trap.

* * *

In the silence of the Reliquary, Solyn heard a Voice.

Then, all at once, the Chimer's concentration was disturbed; a prickling sensation erupted on his palm, the one that had been holding the heart stone. There was a brief stab of cold, then a slight numbness.

His glowing golden eyes shot open as the foreign words invaded his ears, and he felt a brief wind pass over his face. The numbness in his hand had faded, and in the back of his mind he sensed that the heart stone had fallen from his hand, and rolled on the floor away from him. He paid it no heed—for only the second time in four thousand years, Solyn's mind was perturbed; this was a development he had not been expecting.

The advance guard he had sent to Winterhold had fallen, he instinctively knew. That was quicker than he had expected; the mages of that College were certainly adept, but these had been created specifically to combat their woefully limited magic. Still, the fact remained that they had been dispatched not even a minute after he had sent them there.

He had done so via a quick detour through the Outer Realms, of course—courtesy of Arniel Gane and his time there—to throw off any chance of tracing them back to him. Solyn was a cautious elf, both in his actions and his thoughts; he had known from the start that his subordinates were not _completely_ invincible. And yet …

His eyes widened. Of course! There was _one_ magic that he had not accounted for, simply because much like him, it was very rare, unseen in the world for hundreds of years.

 _A Dragonborn in Winterhold,_ Solyn thought— _right under my nose._ The Chimer almost laughed out loud at this: even now, after millennia of seclusion and study, he was still making discoveries that surprised him to no end. It was shameful, really, to pass on such a unique opportunity to study this incredible magic—this _Voice_.

But the will of his Lord Voryn could not be denied, Solyn knew. House Dagoth had come too far to be stopped now—he could not risk his father's hard work for a passing whim. This Dragonborn was fascinating, and worth a more in-depth study in the future—but at present, he was a danger; he could no longer be allowed to intervene.

It was time, Solyn knew. The Dragonborn, along with the three mages he'd encountered in the Forge, were the biggest threat to his plans. But the Dragonborn was still only one man, and the mages were still a day's trek from the College at the very least—more than enough time to accomplish the next step.

He reached into his robe, and produced a second heart stone from its folds. This one was bigger, and glowed far brighter than the mere sample he'd been using to observe the first wave. It would take more of his magic, certainly—and indeed, far more of his concentration as well. But all the pieces of the puzzle were in place; at this point in time, Dagoth Solyn just needed them here before him.

And while he was at it, he reflected, maybe he could use what he had learned thus far to plan further ahead. That Aetherium Forge was a fascinating contraption indeed, he mused. Perhaps it was time he had one of his own …

* * *

_The Midden_

Drevis Neloren felt the surge of magickal energy a fraction of an instant before his eyes, still under the influence of the scrying-smoke, detected a bright orange glow within each of the sacks. It was highly defined too—to the point where the Dunmer could not only tell that it was spherical, but that it was also an imperfect sphere, scored with vertical gashes around its axis.

Without thinking, Drevis lunged for the nearest sack—one that had not yet been searched by the others—and reached deep inside it.

Tolfdir's eyes snapped open at the noise, and peered in his direction, but the old Nord did not stir otherwise. "Drevis?" he asked, instantly concerned for his colleague. "What is it?"

Drevis merely grunted in response, still intent on finding whatever was inside. He felt the still-slightly dirty septims slide over his arm, and was taken aback by how warm they felt—not hot to the touch, but enough so that it felt like a pleasant summer's day inside. This magicka that the object inside was giving off must be incredible—to the point where it was altering the ambient temperature around it!

His palm suddenly brushed against something that was definitely not a septim—it was rough, and rocky, and instinctively Drevis knew that this was the object he had sensed just now. He moved to pull it out, and give it a closer examination.

"I've got something!" he yelled, and everyone, guards and all, sprang to their feet.

But something was wrong. The septims did not feel like septims anymore—they were losing their metallic touch, and, as Drevis discovered when he opened the sack wider, their golden luster. Indeed, the more he pulled the foreign object out, the more dirty they seemed to feel. By the time Drevis finally fished out the foreign object, the contents of the sack felt more like sand than any sort of money.

He had only a glimpse of the object—a blasted brown rock pockmarked with holes and gashes—and then the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He had been in Solstheim long enough to know what this was—and he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

He could only help save everyone else before it was too late.

"Get out!" he roared at the mages and the guards, who seemed anxious, but did not move to heed his orders. "Now, damn it all, _no_ —!"

Many things happened then, and within a few seconds' time: _something_ stirred within the sack, and Drevis felt a jerk as that _something_ tried to wrest the heart stone from his grip.

Instinctively, he looked downward at whatever was grappling with him, and Drevis thought he saw the shape of a hand, crudely hewn as if from rock, for a split second. Then something lunged at him from within the bag; there was a snarl, and a flash of red light—and something hit Drevis' chest like a fist.

The Dunmer did not scream in pain—he could not. He only had time to stand up, turn around, and show a stunned Brelyna Maryon the smoldering crater where his heart and lungs had been just seconds ago.

For a moment, Drevis Neloren heard screaming, and felt the cold of Winterhold spreading through his body as he toppled backward.

The next, he felt nothing at all.


	18. XVII

XVII

It had all started with a dead servant.

Three years ago, after helping to clean up the mess of a particularly annoying Worm Cult in Skyrim, Grimnir had journeyed to Solstheim, and Brelyna Maryon had gone with him. Determined to prove her worth in magickal prowess to her fellow Telvanni, she had convinced Grimnir to leave her in the care of one of the House wizard-lords who lived there—Master Neloth.

The following two years saw her completing some of the most menial work imaginable: trekking all the way over to High Rock just to find a single briar seed, delving into Ayleid ruins in Cyrodiil simply to recover a pair of staves, even being the subject of one of Neloth's more … experimental spells. It was just as well those tentacles weren't permanent—otherwise she might have strangled the mad wizard for his callous attitude towards everyone he met.

Then his steward Varona had been discovered on the road to Raven Rock. Neloth had been so dismissive of this that the two had nearly come to blows, and Brelyna was yet again reduced to being his errand elf, saddled with the task of finding a replacement at once. But in the process, she had discovered firsthand an unexpected side effect of the eruption of the Red Mountain.

 _Ash spawn_ : a combination of the hardened volcanic ash of Vvardenfell, and the remains—either cremated or buried—of the deceased. Neither living nor dead, they wasted no time in swarming the south of Solstheim in a matter of days. The ancestral tombs of Raven Rock were nearly overrun, and the nearby ruins of Fort Frostmoth were lost soon after. While Grimnir had been off gallivanting with the Skaal tribes to the north in his campaign against Miraak, Brelyna had been tasked to eradicate the ash spawn by almost every authority figure on Solstheim. They had only spoken once in his time there before the Dragonborn was whisked off to a Dwarven ruin.

Brelyna was very clever, even for a Dunmer with hopes of becoming a Telvanni master, and it didn't take long for her to deduce that something—and in fact, _someone_ —was controlling the ash spawn. When Neloth found out that that _someone_ had been one of his former apprentices, for a moment—if _only_ one—he had looked unusually rattled, as if he'd suddenly understood just what he'd unleashed upon the island. Then, he was as irascible as ever, and—over a cup of that revolting canis root tea he somehow liked so much—he had ordered Brelyna to hunt her down and destroy her, with the promise that she would be counted among the Telvanni if she succeeded.

Now, all the way in Winterhold, watching the horror that was unfolding before her eyes, the Dunmer had flashed back to her time on Solstheim—from her first encounter with the ash spawn to her fight against Ildari. The hole that had just been blasted in Drevis Neloren's chest reminded her of just how far that spiteful elf had gone in order to exact her revenge upon Neloth.

Then Drevis toppled backward to the ground with a soft _thud_. Brelyna needed no detection spells to know that her former instructor was dead. She screamed in horror—and then everything happened at once.

The Midden exploded with activity—Tolfdir, Phinis, and J'zargo were up on their feet in a flash; all three men had already cast flesh spells on themselves, and glowed with a pale green light. Calcelmo's guards drew their weapons, and moved to barricade any way out of the chamber.

Then, the bags that had contained Solyn's apparent reward exploded. Thick brown clouds spread through the Midden in seconds, so hot and choking that Tolfdir had to cast breathing spells on everyone present, and J'zargo had surrounded himself in a cold mist—a frost cloak, Brelyna knew.

Something stirred within the clouds, and Brelyna—trying her damnedest to pretend as though Drevis had not suddenly been killed before her eyes, cast an ice storm nowhere in particular. She did not make it particularly strong—even though Calcelmo's guards were all Nords, and therefore resistant to the cold of their homeland—; her only goal was to dispel this caustic ash. And sure enough, within a few seconds, the thick mists had been blown away by the rotation of her ice storm.

When she saw what was behind them, she gasped.

"By the _Dro-m'Athra_ … " J'zargo breathed; he had seen them as well. "What are these creatures?"

"Ash spawn!" Instantly Brelyna's hands had erupted in magic as she stared down this unexpected adversary.

There were ten of them in all—ten quasi-humanoid creatures made up of ash, rock, and Azura only knew who or what else. But even as Brelyna watched the sight in fascinated horror, more were on the way, and all of them seemed to be climbing from (unless Brelyna's eyes were very much mistaken) the bags of money Solyn had had delivered to them. Only moments later, their number had doubled … and they were very close to tripling.

"Suppress them!" One of Calcelmo's twenty or so guards leapt for the ash spawn, broadsword in hand. He skewered the lead ash spawn with his blade, and kicked the writhing monster to the ground. But his efforts, though heroic, were in vain: the Nord was stunned to see that upon pulling his sword out of the ash spawn's body, the blade had melted from the sheer heat generated from within it. The instant of distraction led to his undoing—two more ash spawn raised their own jagged blades like spears, and pierced the Nord through his own steel cuirass in kind.

"Galdar!" cried another guard. He let fly with an arrow at the ash spawn that had killed his comrade, then another. Both arrows found their marks, and knocked the creatures backward, but—as with the blade—the arrows soon burst into flame from the heat of the ash that composed them.

And still the ash spawn advanced. They shambled slowly, wave after wave, but slowly their threat was becoming all the more grave. Several of them fired off bolts of red-orange light at their enemies; the archer that had taken out two ash spawn mere moments ago was incinerated in a flash. Brelyna and the others were forced to erect wards to dissipate all the others.

"Push them back!" she called out. "Fire is useless against ash spawn—ice and storm magic _only!_ " The Dunmer emphasized this by hurling another ice storm at the nearest wave of enemies. This one was larger, and more powerful, and pushed the ash spawn back against the wall with just the sheer force of the winds it generated.

Unfortunately, that was all it had going for it.

It took a moment for Brelyna to catch on, but soon enough, her jaw dropped when she figured out that there was a suspicious lack of _dying_ among all these ash spawn. That ice storm she had unleashed was the strongest spell in her arsenal, capable of affecting not just one enemy—like most frost spells were designed to do—but _any_ enemy in their path, be it five or five hundred. And yet, not a single one of those horrors had died just now.

_What was going on here?_

The most obvious answer, Brelyna knew, was that this group of ash spawn was different. Whoever was controlling them must have learned from Ildari's mistakes, and made a stronger variant—one that was nearly immune to not only fire, but frost and—she scattered a few experimental bolts of lightning among the ash spawn—shock magic as well, she amended, as none of those bolts had so much as made them stumble.

So they were immune to destruction magic, thought the Dunmer, as she tried to push them back with another woefully ineffective ice storm. That was serious enough—and to add insult to injury, the ash their bodies were composed of was so hot that it could apparently melt steel like ice on a midsummer's day. Even if the creature was killed by a lucky hit from a blade or a bow and arrow, they were reinforcing at such a high rate that it didn't matter.

She felt a grudging admiration for whoever had designed these creatures. Most likely it was this Solyn character, she guessed with a groan—even if he'd never so much as stepped inside College grounds, he'd certainly been doing his homework.

The ash spawn, meanwhile, had already recovered from Brelyna's frost magic, and recommenced their advance. Those of them that didn't use magic were already spreading out and attacking the guards with reckless abandon. Initially, they were unsuccessful—Grimnir, and Calcelmo by extension, had chosen his guards well, Brelyna had to admit. But they still took the guards' iron and steel weapons with them in the process. To the ash spawn—and more to the point, their controller—it was a fair trade. Left with little more than piles of melted slag, the guards were helpless against the next waves of ash spawn; in less than a minute, the creatures had killed every single guard.

And they were _still coming_.

Phinis looked stricken as he took in the death and destruction. "Tolfdir," muttered the Breton, "we must contain them at all costs. If they reach the lower levels of the Midden, there may not be a Midden left for long. There may not even be a College, either!"

Tolfdir nodded. "The Forge." Brelyna knew what he was referring to: the Atronach Forge, the mysterious device that could summon almost every manner of Daedra imaginable, so long as one had the necessary offerings to do so, and a hyperagonal medium to transmit them—for instance, the sigil stone that Grimnir had acquired some time ago.

If the ash spawn got their hands on that—Brelyna shivered at the thought of what might happen. "We'll fall back, make our stand there," she recommended to everyone else, narrowly missing a blast from one of the closer ash spawn and deflecting another. "Maybe we can get ourselves some help from Oblivion in the process."

"Too risky," Tolfdir said, shaking his grizzled head. "And it's bound to get us all killed—and then who would be left to warn the College about what's happened down here?"

And suddenly, Brelyna saw a glint in the old wizard's eye—one that she had seen on plenty of Nords in her day, and one that often led to tales being sung in the inn of valor and sacrifice. Within moments, Brelyna Maryon knew what Tolfdir was about to suggest … and she wouldn't have any of it.

"No," she said. "Absolutely not. I've known you longer than anyone else here, Tolfdir. I won't let you do this!"

The old Nord looked older than ever, but his brilliant eyes—one hazel, the other a bright green—radiated a light so bright that he might as well be at the peak of his prime again. "There's no other way, my dear," he said sadly. "A Master Wizard of Winterhold has only one duty to him—to advise his Arch-Mage, and to protect him and his College. Grimnir's a good, strong man—I've had it easy these few years I've known him. It's high time I did the job he told me to do."

He reached out with his hand, and Brelyna felt the hair on her body rise up briefly before she felt the cool caress of the flesh spell wrap around her form. "You and J'zargo must go back to the College. Warn the Arch-Mage. Phinis will guide you to the way out."

The Breton looked up at the mention of his name. His normally nonchalant attitude had been swept away, and he now regarded Tolfdir with a mixture of sadness and respect. "What should we do if you fail?"

Tolfdir chuckled softly, as though he'd just been told a very funny joke. "My boy, the College has survived worse than this—it certainly survived old Grimnir," he wheezed. Then his jaw became set. "But if _you_ don't survive with it," he added warningly, "it might not for much longer."

J'zargo looked as though he wanted nothing more than to fight alongside him. He swallowed, and patted the old man's shoulder with a paw. "Jone and Jode guide you," he said huskily.

Phinis slammed his hand on the ground, and was lost to sight by a barrier of violet fire. A veritable wall of red-and-black armor and spikes rushed out from it with the ferocity of a troll. Something long and black flashed out—and the next moment, no less than ten ash spawn had been cloven in two, and the force of the blow caused them to disintegrate into loose piles of ash. Brelyna gave a silent cheer at their first real fight back.

" _I honor my lord by destroying you!_ " roared the newly emerged Dremora as he held his claymore aloft, skewering yet another ash spawn on the ripping edge of the black blade. Another pair of swings felled another dozen of the creatures, and Brelyna's heart rose when she saw that Phinis had cleared a way out for them.

"You and J'zargo have to go, now!" Phinis called out to them. "Don't worry—I'll be right behind you. Head for the surface and don't look back!"

Brelyna took one last look at Tolfdir, and fought the urge to let the tears flow. The old Nord was positively brimming with magicka—so much so that his silver hair was flowing every which way.

Then Phinis' Dremora pushed her onward without any care for her emotions, and Tolfdir was lost to sight—but not to her ear. Brelyna had time to hear Tolfdir speak one last piece before she was unceremoniously deposited on the ground floor of the Hall of Countenance:

"I am a Master Wizard of Winterhold, and a retainer to the Last Dragonborn! By all the hearts and minds I hold dear in mine, you shall go _no further!_ "

Then the trapdoor to the Midden had closed, and Brelyna heard nothing but a muffled series of explosions from below as she raced out of the hall and—she hoped with all her heart—to Grimnir.

* * *

_Outside Fort Amol_

"We're almost in sight of Eastmarch!"

The wind whipped at Mistress Malys' face as the carriage raced down the road at breakneck speed. It was nighttime, and vinye and cosette were both doing their best to get some rest. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Malys had eventually convinced them that if the College of Winterhold were truly in danger of being attacked, it would not be best to fight both sleep and Solyn at the same time.

Nevertheless, the driver's announcement gave Her little comfort.

"There's a mill up ahead. You sure You don't want to rest up there?" asked the driver for the third time that night.

And for the third time, Malys answered him back, "We paid you to get us to Winterhold as if your horse was being chased by Dagon himself!" She called back irritably. "We didn't pay you to ask questions on the way!"

The driver huffed, and spurred the reins of his horse again. "Yah!"

As the carthorse launched himself onward with a whinny, Malys was left to pray to the Daedra that all was not lost. Vampire She might be, but Her dedication to Azura, Boethiah, and all their kin had not died with Her.

* * *

_Winterhold_

The ash spawn struck with ferocious intensity.

They streamed from the two entrances to the Midden—one in the courtyard of the College, another in its Hall of Countenance, and wasted no time in attacking everyone and everything within sight. Sergius Terrianus, the College's reclusive enchanter, was seen trying to persuade a few prospective defenders that they were either too young or too inexperienced, and coaxing them to get inside the Hall of Attainment.

Though the ash spawn did not know it yet, it was to be the safest place in the College of Winterhold that day.

Just ahead of the growling and gurgling storm of ash, fire, and stone were J'zargo, Brelyna and Phinis, who emerged from the Hall of Countenance with smoldering robes, herding several more harried staff members into the courtyard and toward the adjacent hall. Once they were out of harm's way, the trio helped Sergius get to safety—the old Imperial had managed to hold off a group of the ash spawn with a volley of very thick ice spikes: enough to slow them down, but not nearly enough to kill them outright.

" _No one escapes!_ " bellowed a voice from above. It sounded like a Dremora, Brelyna thought; Phinis must have summoned a new one to stem the tide of ash spawn from above. She craned her neck upward, and sure enough, she saw a black-armored mountain of a Daedra with a black blade on the parapet above. That same black blade scythed through the ash spawn as if it was threshing wheat, and loose ash began to fall on the ground alongside the snow.

In the thick of the action, J'zargo made a guttural aside to Brelyna. The Dunmer followed his claw—pointing towards one of the ash spawn, and was surprised to see that a full suit of armor was sticking out under all that ash in some places. Immediately after, she felt a dull blow to her gut when she realized just how similar that armor looked to that of Calcelmo's private army.

"So they resurrected the guards," Brelyna growled under her breath, and J'zargo nodded. This was a problem—bad enough these monsters were almost immune to magic, but they had armor now; most of the mages here didn't have a blade to their name. "I hate necromancers," she growled. "Always have to fight them twice."

"Khajiit sees no necromancy in this, Brelyna," observed J'zargo. "It appears as if these ash spawn force themselves into a new host instead—a freshly dead body, which it may animate from inside. It is better than necromancy," he said grimly, "in that these ones must first get through the puppet, now, before we face his puppeteer."

Brelyna felt sick as she noticed the ash spawn in question indeed looked a little more rotund than before.

"What the devil is going on out here?!"

Both mages turned around to face Grimnir walking towards them. Even the bluish-green mask on the Arch-Mage's scarred face looked scowling as it surveyed the chaos around him.

"Brelyna—why are there ash spawn on College grounds?" he demanded.

"They came from the sacks, Grimnir!" the Dunmer told him in reply, the words tumbling out of her mouth. "Solyn's sacks—these must be _his_ doing! Drevis didn't have a chance—the ash spawn killed him only a few moments after they revealed themselves."

Grimnir's mask showed no expression, or any change in it, but Brelyna felt the aura around him change. She knew this was a serious blow to him—Drevis had been his own instructor in illusion magic, before his journey to Solstheim.

"I know—they tried to get to me, too." The mask had turned upward to the battlements, just in time to see the Dremora overpowered by the hordes of ash spawn. "I see Phinis up above. Colette is inside with the other students. But where is Tolfdir?"

Brelyna felt her heart sink. Had the Master Wizard not made it out yet? " … He told us to go on ahead," she said thickly, "said he'd hold the ash spawn off from below. We … haven't seen him since."

The aura around Grimnir grew further, and Brelyna felt the power behind it, the raw emotion. She knew Grimnir was angry now—that the dragon inside him was stirring in its slumber.

"Get inside," the Dragonborn ordered, tightening his blue gloves. "Make sure everyone else is safe. I'll handle this—but I don't want any of you caught in the crossfire."

Crossfire? Brelyna wondered. _He's not going to use …_ "Grimnir, these ash spawn are different than the ones we faced on Solstheim—the ones created by Ildari Sarothril. They're completely immune to destruction magic now, and they can take over the bodies of anyone they kill—like puppets on strings."

"Can they?" Brelyna did not like the tone in which he spoke those two words. There was no emotion to the Dragonborn's voice whatsoever. He might have been genuinely curious, perhaps even cocky and confident. But the Dunmer had known Grimnir long enough to know that such emotions were little else than veils for something far darker—just another set of masks for him to wear.

"Go," Grimnir said simply. "I told you, I've got this under control."

"I hope so," Brelyna told him. "Because if your magic doesn't work on them," she added under her breath as she hauled a protesting J'zargo by his paw into the Hall of Attainment, "then we're in bigger trouble than Labyrinthian and Ancient's Ascent put together … "

* * *

Grimnir watched them leave out of the corner of his one eye. Once he was sure that Brelyna and J'zargo were out of harm's way—and that no one else was in his sight—he went to work.

The Arch-Mage knew the ash spawn well, though not as well as Brelyna had in her quest to neutralize Ildari. But he'd had to face a few hordes or so of them on his own sojourn through Solstheim, and Grimnir knew they were best dealt with all at once. Taking them on one at a time was a losing battle.

 _Kyne's Wrath_ , then, he thought. _That should hold their advance_.

He spread out his legs, turning his gaze skyward as the ash spawn turned in his direction, and advanced on him from the battlements and the grounds alike, dropping from the parapets and brandishing all manner of spell, spear and sword in their roughly hewn hands.

Grimnir saw this, and immediately both his hands glowed with the most potent of restoration magic. He wove them this way and that, and slammed his palms on the ground. There was a bang, and a flash of light, and then a shimmering blue bubble of magicka had encompassed the Arch-Mage for ten feet in every direction.

The ash spawn growled, and released blasts of fire from their hands at the shield. They burst against the magickal edge of the barrier, and did no apparent damage. Yet Grimnir's knew his shield was only a stopgap; it was either a matter of time or firepower before it dissipated into thin air. And with this many ash spawn, he needed to act quickly.

He felt Morokei's mask tingle on his face as he began to gather more magic for his attack. That dragon priest's moonstone visage was a particular favorite of Grimnir's; in his research, he had discovered that it bore a unique regeneration enchantment that acted upon all manner of magicka—even the ancient magic that was unique to him, the Dragonborn … the magic he was currently building up inside his throat.

The ash spawn, meanwhile, continued their assault, and at last one of their fire spells breached Grimnir's shield. He was not perturbed—the barrier had provided him enough time to retaliate. He took a deep breath—and Spoke.

" _Ven … Grah VEY!_ "

For only a split second, the winds that constantly buffeted the College shrieked louder than ever—like a thousand razor-sharp blades. The split second after that, those blades of wind, shaped and guided by Grimnir's Voice, sliced through the hordes of ash spawn like a dragon's claws rending flesh, meeting no resistance whatsoever. Within seconds, any and every ash spawn that had so much reared its head had been bisected, trisected and then some into hundreds upon hundreds of cleanly cut chunks.

The Arch-Mage surveyed his work with a detached satisfaction. The Greybeards had named this Shout Kyne's Wrath, after the Nordic goddess of wind, rain, and the storm. By Shouting to the winds, the Dragonborn could thus command them, and therefore use them to bolster his speed to superhuman levels, scatter his foes like chaff, or—as he had just demonstrated—kill dozens of them in the time it took to draw breath.

The Dragonborn had created this Shout himself, and other Shouts as well—meditating upon the Words of the dragon language for a long time to discern their many meanings—and so he was therefore its only living master. For even the dragons, in spite of their great power and their intelligence, lacked the ingenuity and adaptability of mortalkind.

 _The Dragonborn is the pinnacle of both worlds—the ultimate dragonslayer_.

Grimnir started—those had not been his thoughts. Was he hearing things … or—?

 _No, you're not_ , said the voice, as calmly as if it was discussing this over a pot of Neloth's tea. _You're quite strong, you know. I wasn't expecting to find someone like you still alive on Nirn. It's a bit sad that it won't be for too much longer. My assistants will see to that._

"Are you Solyn, then?" Grimnir asked, looking at the battlements and around the grounds with some concern at the words. Had he missed some ash spawn? Or did Solyn's so-called "assistants" have another trick up their sleeve?

 _I am_ , the voice confirmed. _And you may rest assured that your body will not be too damaged. After all, I have a unique opportunity to study this admirable magic of yours—and I would prefer not to squander it with brute force._

 _That being said_ , Solyn went on, _you are still an inconvenience. I do not like inconveniences. Restrain him._

As the last words faded, Grimnir heard a rumbling from up above, and his first, frantic thought was that a snowstorm was brewing. But no—it was coming from the battlements of the College. And even as Grimnir looked upon the parapet, he saw the pieces of the hordes of ash spawn he had felled swirling into the air, rotating around invisible points all around him—tornadoes of volcanic dust and rock twice as tall as he was.

These tornadoes now sprouted what might have been called a head and a pair of arms, and Grimnir now realized that these were atronachs of some description—not unlike a summons he had seen Neloth use in their exploration of the Dwarven ruin Nchardak. If that was true, then—

He erected a second shield around him at the same time as these "ash atronachs" raised their hands in unison and sent blinding clouds of ash racing towards him. All visibility was lost within seconds, and Grimnir could not even see the edge of the barrier he had erected, so choking was the miasma. The tiny particles of ash that made up these clouds were better able to penetrate the barrier, he realized—blocking this assault was worse than useless now!

The Arch-Mage knew he had little time, and so he raised both his hands until they brimmed with turquoise-colored energy. He let that energy wash over his body, and his strongest flesh spell took shape over his skin—one that was, fittingly enough, strong as dragon scales.

The spell had only been in place for a moment before the onslaught of ash broke through his shield, and in an instant Grimnir's world was a mass of extremes—darkness and light, heat and cold, all of it pressing upon his skin like a hundred wet blankets. He realized what Solyn was trying to do; he could sense the alteration magic imbued within this ash. A quick test confirmed it—his arm could not move an inch.

 _A paralysis spell_ , thought Grimnir, _and an odd way to go about one, too. Well, there's still an answer to that_.

Flesh spells were normally spread evenly along the skin of their caster's body, Tolfdir had told him once. However, an especially skillful mage could learn to concentrate his magicka along certain points of that flesh spell—almost like the spaces in a suit of armor. If Grimnir could do this, and then release that magicka in the blink of an eye …

He waited a few dangerous seconds longer, and then flexed the muscles in his arms with a loud grunt. There was a noise like crunching glass, and he saw cracks spreading across the blanket of hot ash. Magicka leaked from those cracks, forcing the ash to fall from his body like dried skin.

 _Very nice_ , said Solyn's voice again, sounding quite amused, and the Arch-Mage cursed the unseen elf for his persistence. _Those three mages you sent to find me are quite powerful. And yet they are nothing compared to you._

"Leave them out of this, damn you!" shouted Grimnir.

 _Not when they've already done so much to help me_ , Solyn laughed. _They are on their way to you now—but they will be too late. Kill him—quickly, quietly. Do not make a mess._

" _Ven … Grah VEY!_ " Grimnir responded. The wind howled for a second time, and again it sliced at the atronachs with furious speed. But the ash and rocks that comprised them were either so dense, or able to avoid Kyne's Wrath with the speed at which they rotated, that only a few of them suffered any discernable damage—and not a single atronach fell to his Shout.

Grimnir saw this, and knew that these creatures were too much for the others to handle. They were almost completely immune to magic, and too dense to be damaged by the mass-produced Nord steel of the guards. Their predecessors might have been weak to more powerful melee attacks—such as the Daedric weapons of a Dremora—but if they could withstand Kyne's Wrath as they just had, Grimnir doubted that would be the case again.

There was no better choice he could make.

And so, as the ash constructs recommenced their attack, Grimnir made that choice.

" _Mul … Qah DIIV!_ "

Bluish-gold spectral armor, shaped in the likeness of dragon scales, erupted from his arms, chest and head, dispelling the new coats of ash that had settled over him, and protecting him from any further assault from the ash constructs. This was one of the more powerful Shouts Grimnir had mastered; it had been necessary for him to learn it in order to stop the renegade Miraak from enslaving Solstheim several years ago.

However, Grimnir had studied the Voice extensively in his time since becoming the Dragonborn, to the point where the armor that covered his body merely set the stage for something else, something so powerful that Grimnir had forbidden himself from ever using it in front of innocent people—but there was no other solution he could see.

The Dragonborn took a deep breath. _Akatosh, Kyne … Master Arngeir … forgive me for what I am about to do_.

As Grimnir's feet began to leave the ground from the sheer amount of magic he was concentrating inside himself, he spread out his arms, unclenched his fists—and called every last ounce of the _Thu'um_ inside him into his mouth.

" _Sah …_ "

* * *

Down below in the Midden, Tolfdir was in trouble. The Master Wizard was bleeding from a dozen open, healed, and reopened wounds in his body, and he was almost knee-deep in the remains of what must have been hundreds of ash spawn—yet still the old Nord soldiered on. But these creatures were equally resilient; Tolfdir had now been pushed within inches of the same sigil stone that he had entrusted himself to protect. He knew he could not falter here, or else the Atronach Forge would be seized, and then who knew what could happen from there?

As a fresh wave of ash spawn poured forth, Tolfdir's hand blazed with green energy, and he raised his palm outward with a war cry to unleash a massive emerald wave. The paralysis spell—the latest of many he'd had to use to stall and buy time for everyone up above—washed over the creatures, and all of them within range toppled backward.

His other hand was consumed in Oblivion magic, and he produced a glowing battleaxe of shimmering violet flame, hefting it in his hands. Tolfdir swung it left and right, and the ephemeral barbs of the axe ripped into the ash spawn, disintegrating yet more of the horrors at his feet.

Then, several things happened at once.

Tolfdir heard a great rumble, and the first thought in the old Nord's mind was, _Earthquake?_ But that was impossible; the outcrop of rock on which the College stood was magically reinforced. It would take another eruption of Vvardenfell to sunder it again.

Then he realized that the trembling was coming from _above_ the ground—at exactly the same time as he heard a low, growling roar from somewhere above him.

Tolfdir had heard a roar like that only once in his life, and only recently at that. He had not been there to see it, but Faralda had told him stories of the destruction that had come after. The ash spawn were no longer the foremost thought in his head, and so absorbed was the old wizard that he didn't notice that the ash spawn, too, had stopped at the sound of the roar.

Tolfdir was well within his right to be so distracted, even if it would have meant his undoing. This roar was easily the most terrifying thing that could have happened today. It wasn't as dangerous as a horde of interminable ash warriors, or even as an earthquake to match the destruction of Vvardenfell.

If anything, it was _worse_.

And now, Tolfdir was so worried at what was happening above him that he wasn't seeing what was going on in _front_ of him until the two ash spawn were right there. The figure they flanked was thinner and much less broader at the shoulder.

But when the wizard saw who it was, he finally faltered. All hope left him, and the battleaxe faded and died in his hand. He had no trouble recognizing the naked man before him—or at least, what was left of him.

" … Drevis?" the old Nord whispered, eyes wide in horror. "Drevis, my lad … _what have they done to your face?_ "

When the bleeding mouth of Drevis Neloren spoke, it was in a voice that did not belong to him at all. "Where are you?" he cried out. "What are you? What is this place?!" He thrashed against his captors, and raked his clawed fingers at the empty space where his face had once been.

"Speak to me!" howled the crazed _thing_ that had once been Drevis, foaming at the mouth. "Please, I'm so tired! _Please—JUST LET ME SLEEP!_ "

And then he broke free of the ash spawn, and lunged for Tolfdir with the insane shriek of a berserker.

* * *

Faralda, meanwhile, was at her wit's end. She'd just been to see Thorvald, the head of the town guard, about Grimnir's suspicion that the College might soon be attacked. And the stubborn Nord's reply had been a dismissive, "Absolutely absurd."

The Altmer bristled. "Maybe I wasn't being clear with you," she said coldly, gritting her teeth. "In the event of an attack on Winterhold, the College is normally your first line of defense, is it not? Well, what do you think might happen if the College was suddenly put out of commission by said attack?

"Exactly," Faralda went on, not waiting for Thorvald to answer. "Once the attackers finished with the College, they would move on to the rest of the town. And without our help, I think you can agree that Winterhold would be a big, fat _sitting duck_."

Thorvald sighed, and pulled a leather-clad hand over his face. "Listen, it's not that I don't understand that kind of threat," he said patiently. "But my men are stretched too thin as it is. These vampire attacks have put us all on edge—and I think we can both agree that vampires are the more dangerous enemy to face here."

Faralda almost blew up then and there in fury—in fact, she _would_ have, had something _else_ not blown up first.

It was a distance away, and somewhat muffled in the wind and snow, but something had indeed exploded, and Faralda suspected that the culprit was somewhere within College grounds. Was Grimnir right—had an attack already started?

Immediately, her voice turned frantic. "I don't care how many guards you have to recall—get everyone you can spare and get them to the College _yesterday_!"

Thorvald backed away from the panicked elf before him. Seeming to recognize that he was stuck between a rock and a hard place, he barked orders to anyone he could see. "Gretta! Yngmar! Sound the horn! Any other soldier not on patrol is to make for the College on the double! Let's move it—!"

And then there was the worst sound of all—a deep, bellowing roar that shook Faralda's bones and instantly soaked her neck in cold sweat. That was not a dragon's roar, she knew. And yet …

Thorvald had already made for the door, and stared from the threshold in awed terror. "Shor have mercy … " he whispered. Faralda followed his gaze, and blanched when she saw the yellowish light emanating from the College courtyard, and the wisps of black smoke rising from—

Black smoke and golden light, and a roar that could shout down the gods themselves … Faralda felt her knees quake at the sight, and icy claws colder than the winds of Winterhold pierced her heart and choked her with frozen terror.

There could be no doubt now— _it was happening again_.

"Shalidor, save us all," she murmured—and then Faralda bolted for the College.

Thorvald tried to hurry after her. "Where are you going?!" he called out, waving a fist at her in agitation. "Bloody mages—that place will be the end of you one day, and by Ysmir, it'll be the end of us all!"

But the elf did not hear him—as she sprinted up the footbridge, only one thought was on her mind. This was not the first time she had seen those yellow lights or that black miasma. The last time she had—and the first time—it had nearly ended her life in a split second.

 _Grimnir … you told me you would never use_ that _Shout again!_ Faralda thought. _Is the situation that dire, for you to resort to it so quickly?!_

She prayed to Auriel to grant her the courage to face what she knew was about to come—and for the strength to get to the College before it was too late. Because right now, it didn't matter what was going on at the College.

Right now, Grimnir had just become the _real_ danger to Winterhold.

* * *

So scared was Faralda that she could not feel the fatigue in her legs, nor could she hear the protesting of their muscles as they continued to exert themselves against all better judgement. She sprinted up the bridge, telekinetically wrenched open the gate with her magic without pausing in her step—

And gasped.

The scene beyond was nothing short of a battlefield. Most of the snow that had fallen in the courtyard was melted, replaced by a blanket of glowing ash so thick that it covered everything—even the trees and bushes that dotted the space were groaning under the weight of it all. Faralda guessed these must have been the ash spawn—Grimnir must have killed them all. Was this the end of the threat, then? Had the Arch-Mage—

CRUNCH.

Something heavy, something burning and black, fell from the sky, and onto the statue of Shalidor and the fountain of magicka he presided over. The ancient edifice, repaired time and again from one dragon attack after another, crumpled once more under the strength of the person that had descended upon it.

But Faralda knew that while it might have had the _form_ of a human—it most definitely was _not_ human.

Grimnir Torn-Skull stood in the center of the courtyard, over the remains of the magickal font and what was left of the statue of Shalidor. But the way he was standing sent alarm bells through Faralda's mind; the Arch-Mage was crouched on all fours, and a strange black substance, like burning pitch, covered him and most of the area around him. The eyeholes of the mask on his face—Faralda could not tell which one, nor did she want to get close enough to find out—were blazing with a bright red flame.

 _I'm too late_ , the Altmer realized. _That_ thing _has already taken over his body!_

" _Zu'u zok sahrot do naan ko Lein!_ " bellowed Grimnir— _no_ , Faralda reflected, the _Dragonborn_. The words were not in Grimnir's voice; it was a full octave lower, perhaps even two, and akin to something more primal than a mere human being.

And then the Dragonborn noticed Faralda.

The Altmer's breath caught in her throat as his neck jerked in her direction, and a beastly growl escaped the Dragonborn's lips as he slowly crawled towards her. " _Pahlok joor!_ " he snarled at the Altmer. " _Hin kah fen kos bonaar. Nust wo ni qiilaan fen kos duaan!_ "

Faralda had been around Grimnir long enough to read his movements in battle, and the slight _twitch_ in the Dragonborn's wrists was all that saved her life then and there.

The Dragonborn lunged at her with a snarl, and Faralda rolled to one side only just—he skidded on the ash-covered walkway, tearing his fingernails till the blood flowed on the stone to halt his charge. The stone path was torn in his wake as well—a testament to the kind of power that now radiated from the Dragonborn's body.

In the incipient heat of battle, Faralda realized something crucial. _Its hold isn't too strong_ , she thought, thinking back to how the Dragonborn had twitched a bit before the attack—as if for one slight moment, he had held back. _Did he not use the full Shout?_ That was a bit of good news; it meant that what she was dealing with right now could easily have been much worse.

She had seen Grimnir use the full shout once before, on a large iceberg in the Sea of Ghosts some months ago, as a private demonstration away from prying eyes—and innocent lives. One second, he had opened his mouth, and spoken three simple words of the dragon language.

One second after that, there had been no more iceberg, and _very nearly_ no more Faralda, either. The elf, who had come close to drowning in the frigid ocean that night, had not been able to sleep for the next whole month out of abject fear for the man—the _dragon_ —she was presently fighting.

" _Mulaagi zok lot!_ " spat the Dragonborn as he stalked his prey. " _Faas … Ru MAAR!_ "

A burst of crimson energy erupted from his body, and washed over Faralda with enough force to push her backward a few feet. She closed her eyes instinctively; when she opened up again, the Dragonborn had changed. His body was more hunched and angular now, yet still managed to tower over Faralda. Translucent black flames licked his body like ephemeral scales, and spread out from him as if they were wings. His eyes burned red like blood, and the mask on his face had morphed into a terrifying visage. All of this was wreathed in yet more of that hellish black smoke; whether this was real or some trick of the mind, Faralda could not tell.

Faralda felt herself sweat in spite of herself. _It's just an illusion_ , she told herself. _It's not real! It's_ not real!

The Dragonborn growled again, and the Altmer heard the animal relish in his voice as he savored this battle. " _Faaz … Daan NAAX!_ "

Faralda screamed. Her body was suddenly being assaulted with a level of pain and torture that she never would have thought possible; her very bones were splintering like matchwood, and every single inch of her flesh felt like it was being pierced inside and out, from within and without, by a million searing blades, melting at the onslaught and bursting into flame—

She kept on screaming, screaming even after her throat had turned raw, even after the pain had long since left her body—and still the elf climbed to her feet. For even through all the terror and suffering that the Dragonborn had thrown at her, Faralda knew she could not just give up and die.

She knew Grimnir was still inside that _thing_ —and it was up to her to get him out.

" _Meyz mul, fahliil,_ " the Dragonborn laughed savagely. " _Fo … Krah DIIN!_ "

This time, Faralda was ready for him. As she raised both her hands, she erected the strongest ward her battered body was capable of at the exact same instant as the icy breath of the Dragonborn, cold as the north winds of frozen Atmora, hit the ward with full force. The torrent of freezing air was deflected either side of Faralda, tearing up snowberry bushes and carving furrows in the ash, snow, and frozen earth underneath.

The Dragonborn growled again, a horrible cackle that chilled her insides. " _Strun … Bah QO!_ "

Faralda's breath caught in her throat. _Oh no_. She knew that Shout, and she'd seen how destructive it could be. Not nearly on the level of what she'd seen on that iceberg a long time ago, but still enough to depopulate a small town—and certainly more than enough to finish off one little elf.

Yet Faralda had other ideas.

She had to work quickly—already she could feel the change in the air, the tingling sensations creeping along her skin and making her hair stand on end. The Altmer threw up a ward with one hand, and held it a little higher than when she'd deflected that ice magic just now—an angle high enough in precisely the one direction where she might be safe from both the Dragonborn and the dangerous sky. Then, she readied some alteration magic, as if she was about to cast a flesh spell on herself—but instead, she fed that magic into her ward, strengthening it further still—

Then the lightning struck. Bolt after bolt pummeled the surface around Faralda, dislodging stones from the parapet, splintering bushes and trees and leaving smoldering craters in the earth around her. The noise was deafening.

But as the elf had predicted, the majority of the lightning was concentrated on _her_.

The bolts hit her ward in such rapid succession that it almost felt like a continuous stream of energy. But the infusion of alteration magic into her ward had done the trick; even though it felt like a giant was pummeling her into the ground, Faralda knew the bolts were being successfully deflected—she could tell from the screams and roars in front of her ward, barely audible over the din. She bit her lip, hoping that Grimnir would have enough sense of self-preservation to do what she was hoping to do.

How long the assault continued, Faralda did not know. But just as soon as they had appeared, the bolts faded, and the sky was gradually becoming clearer. It was quiet in the wake of the magical storm— _too_ quiet, as even the wind had ceased to blow—and so, chancing a look, Faralda dropped her ward and stood up. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight.

The remains of the ash spawn were stirring, and for a moment, Faralda wondered why they were moving when there wasn't a breath of wind in the air right now. Then, just as she put two and two together, and prepared her last bit of magic against a possible final push from the ash spawn, the mass of ash suddenly lurched upward, swirling into a giant glowing cloud. This cloud grew higher and higher, larger and larger—before it suddenly dropped like a stone beyond the walls of the College, lost to sight in the time it took to draw breath.

Confounded, Faralda hurried over to the edge of the battlements, and peered downward at the massive drop to the Sea of Ghosts. There was no sign of the cloud—or indeed, of any of the ash spawn that had battled Grimnir—

_Grimnir!_

The Altmer whirled around, towards the spot where she had angled the lightning blasts, and her heart sank as she saw the result of all that destruction.

Grimnir—she _knew_ somehow that that was him, and not the Dragonborn of before—was sprawled against the outer wall of the College, several feet away from the entrance to the Hall of Attainment. Black smoke and sizzling noises curled up from his prone form, and much of the skin Faralda could see was burned and blistered from the onslaught of his own lightning. The wall behind him was cracked and crumbling; Faralda suspected that one more blast might have destroyed it, and sent the Arch-Mage over the edge and into the sea. She wondered if perhaps Grimnir—or the Dragonborn—had sensed this, and decided not to attack any further out of fear for his own life.

Gingerly, Faralda walked up to him, and put a few experimental fingers over his neck, and then his heart. Her own heart rose—there was a pulse, but it was faint. Faralda hoped it could stay that way for just a while longer.

The door to the Hall of Attainment suddenly creaked open. Colette Marence crept out, followed by a few novices close behind her. "Is it over?" one of them asked—a girl called Agni, the Altmer recalled.

"I hope so," replied Faralda. "The threat seems to have passed. There's been no sign of ash spawn for a while now."

"Then what happened out here?" Colette asked, and then her eyes fell on the Arch-Mage. "What happened to Grimnir? I-is he … ?"

"He's alive," Faralda said grimly, "but barely. He needs medical attention _right now_. Get some of the stronger novices you can spare. We need to get him inside—get him to safety."

Colette was already upon Grimnir with healing magic, sealing the worst of the wounds. Both women knew that Grimnir would not die easily—whether it was because of him, or the dragon inside him, he could recover from wounds this serious in less than half the time it would take a normal man. But that didn't mean he was invincible—certainly not in this situation.

"All right," Colette stood up, dusting off her hands. She pointed to a pair of novices who looked a little more broadly built than the average mage. "Talib, Metilius—help me get him upstairs! Gently, now—gently!"

The convoy made for the Hall of the Elements—leaving Faralda to finally breathe a sigh of relief, and to tell Tolfdir of what had happened aboveground.

Faralda stiffened suddenly. Where was Tolfdir, anyway? He hadn't come up from the Midden yet …

* * *

Half an hour later, Faralda—along with Brelyna, J'zargo, and Colette—had found her answer, and all four of them had covered their mouths in shock and sorrow.

Tolfdir lay before the Atronach Forge, still clutching the handle of the rusted iron sword protruding from Drevis' neck. His mouth was open, forever frozen in a silent scream, and his mangled body was covered in jagged gashes and dried blood. Drevis was no better—a gigantic burn scar was emblazoned on his chest, exactly where his heart and lungs ought to be.

"S'rendarr's claws," whispered a horrified J'zargo at the sight; the Khajiit was white in the face under all that fur. Colette looked sick, and had to excuse herself rather quickly from the room.

Faralda couldn't blame her. The Altmer's first thought at seeing this was why Tolfdir would ever think to turn on his colleague in such a way. Presumably, one had been under the control of the ash spawn, and thus forced to attack the other. But Brelyna had already stated that Drevis had died first.

But what was especially disturbing about this entire scene was what had happened to their faces. Both of their heads had been horrifically mutilated; the face had been hollowed out, skull and all, leaving nothing but a circular space of _nothing_. There was no sign of a brain, let alone eyes or a nose; only the ears and mouth remained. The skin was a pasty grayish-white for both men, and only their white hair distinguished one from the other; Tolfdir's lay flat against the stone floor, while Drevis' continued to stick outward even in death.

Brelyna looked especially stricken at the sight of her old mentors. "Oh, gods … this looks like—!"

And before anyone could stop her, she bolted from the chamber, suppressing the urge to either cry or be sick—Faralda could not be sure. She forced herself to look away from the grisly scene, and beheld a second sight that was even more surprising, though this time, it was in a more comforting way.

"The Forge," she said, approaching the construct reverently, eyes locked on the cloudy red morpholith on the forward end of the dais. "The sigil stone is still intact."

"Why?" Colette walked towards the smooth sphere with some caution, still a little pale in the face. "I would have thought Tolfdir would try to destroy it—keep any of those creatures from reinforcing their position here!"

"Unless that was these ash spawn's idea from the beginning," mused J'zargo. "To keep _us_ from bringing help of our own."

"I think you're right, J'zargo," Faralda said thoughtfully. "From what you and Brelyna told me, these ash spawn were already sending reinforcements through those bags of septims that Solyn … "

Her voice trailed off as all three mages thought the same alarming possibility at exactly the same time.

After barely thirty seconds of sprinting back the way they had just come, they arrived at the site of Drevis' scrying spell—and stared in growing horror.

Faralda swallowed, and the small noise echoed loudly in the sheer _emptiness_ of the circular chamber in which they were standing. She turned to J'zargo. "Get Phinis down here right now. We have a problem."

* * *

_Rkund_

The clear skies above the Jerall Mountains swirled with a thick soup of red, orange and brown before they dissipated, though not without dropping a parting gift—or, in this case, five of them.

The five gifts in question hadn't even hit the stone ground before slowing to a halt in front of Dagoth Solyn's glowing hands. They circled him as the golden elf manipulated them, his burning eyes taking in every detail of the newly acquired Dwarven artifacts from every angle.

Already the Chimer's mind was buzzing with excitement. Not just for the fact that the tools he had been searching for were in his possession—along with a few other intriguing relics—but for his interest to find out the power they were capable of. Spellbreaker and Volendrung especially—they were Daedric artifacts, and so their function was just as likely to change as their form over time.

And Kagrenac's Tools … Dagoth Solyn felt his fingers shivering just from a small touch of those arcane artifacts. He was somewhat disappointed to note that the power within them was of only a negligent level—but that did not matter to him. At long last—after four thousand years of exile and planning—he had arrived at this juncture.

At last, the power he had been seeking was his.

Solyn stored the artifacts in his robe—Volendrung and Spellbreaker with some difficulty; they were larger than he had expected—and entered the citadel of Rkund. So immersed in his own thoughts was he that the Chimer found himself in the great hall of the Dwarven city without any memory of how he'd made the journey there.

The miners he had commissioned into helping him excavate the ruin were still gathered here. They had been working tirelessly for the last week—and some were beginning to look mutinous after a seventh straight day of doing nothing but dig up dirt. This did not concern Solyn—the miners, too, had been an excuse for him to come here. Now that he had what he came for, they were expendable to him.

One of the workers, a wood elf, suddenly sprang up from his cot and made a beeline for the Chimer. "Hey, you!" he called out.

Solyn stopped.

"Some of us have been talking," said the Bosmer, jerking his head back to reveal several other miners crouched around a fire. "We've been here for what—two months? Two months of digging, two months of breaking our backs to clear out some out-of-the-way ruin. In those two months, we've lost more than half the men we started out with—Dro'zaka and that wispmother, that cave-in at the cathedral, and a whole army of those metal creatures!"

Solyn did not blink. "Yes?"

That only seemed to make the Bosmer madder. "We're starting to think you have no idea what in Y'ffre's bones you're doing! You're either somewhere down below doing Daedra-know-what, or you're outside doing Daedra-know-what. Two months we've been here, and we have nothing to show for it! If you don't get your act together, we're quitting right now—I don't care how much gold you shell out!"

There was a murmur of assent from the fire behind him.

Solyn merely sighed. "Well, that's actually part of the reason I'm here," the Chimer said quietly. "Your services in Rkund have helped immensely. You see, I have found what I came to collect—all of it and more. I have no further need of your services in this regard—however," he added, holding up a finger before the wood elf could protest, "there is one more thing I must ask of you before I can send you on your way with the rewards of your hard work."

The wood elf cocked his head to one side. "And what's that?"

"You may die."

It took the more slow-witted of the laborers a moment to catch on to what Solyn had just said. An Orc, along with some of the most attentive miners, leapt to their feet in surprised anger.

But by the time they could bring their pickaxes to their hands, Dagoth Solyn had already turned his back on the miners as he made his way back to the lift. He began his descent at the exact same time as his ash spawn, hiding in the rafters above the great hall, descended upon them. The Chimer heard the sounds of the one-sided slaughter all the way down to the lower levels of the citadel.

And all the while he still smiled in anticipation. There was still much work left to do, after all.


	19. XVIII

XVIII

_That night_

The carriage had not yet stopped outside the Frozen Hearth before Vinye sprang from the wagon, Malys and Cosette close behind her. They had just seen the College come into view at last from behind the veil of wind and snow that normally concealed it—and Vinye had felt a stab of fear in her heart when she saw the smoke rising from the battlements.

"Hey!" the Altmer barely heard the driver roar behind them. "Don't scare my horse, you inconsiderate—!"

None of the three mages bothered to hear him as they sprinted over the footbridge and into the courtyard—where a scene of devastation greeted them.

Cosette merely gaped, but Malys swore under her breath. "We're too late," whispered the vampire as she took in the sight.

The statue of Shalidor was nothing but bits of dust and rock, as was the magickal font at his stone feet. One side of the wall was cracked and crumbling, and Vinye noticed a strangely shaped depression in the rock—as if something … no, _someone_ … had been smacked against that wall with the strength of a dragon.

 _What in Auriel's name … ?_ Vinye wondered, trying not to picture what could have done that to such a solid construction.

So absorbed were the three mages in the sight of the carnage that they did not immediately see the Breton running up to them. Phinis Gestor looked quite out of breath—though whether from exhaustion or from anger was unclear.

"Where in the name of Anu have you been?" the conjuration master blustered. His arm was in a sling, and there were several blisters and burns on his face. His tone might have been called hostile if not for these.

Nevertheless, Vinye was still shaken by the chilly reception. "We were trying to collect more Dwarven artifacts … Arch-Mage's orders," she replied. She told of how Solyn had turned on them, and tried to eliminate them in the process.

Phinis' scowl only deepened. "I hope that was important to you all," he said bitterly, as Colette, J'zargo, Faralda, and a young Dunmer woman who Vinye did not know arrived behind him. "Because as you can see, Solyn didn't just stop with you three. He launched an assault on our College, and he very nearly succeeded in destroying it!

That news did not altogether surprise Vinye—her hunch had been correct. But something wasn't adding up here.

"We had a hunch he'd be going after Winterhold," Malys said. "We tried to come as fast as we could—we wanted to warn you about what we found out about him! We wanted to defend against—"

"There was nothing you could have done," interrupted the Dunmer. "The ash spawn struck hard and fast—before anyone had time to blink. The guards were overpowered in moments. Our spells were almost useless. If it wasn't for Grimnir, things would be much worse."

"Ash spawn?" Cosette wondered. "How do you know what they're called?"

"I've seen them before, in the southern regions of Solstheim—although they were a lot easier to take down back then than what we had to face today," said the dark elf. She extended a hand. "Brelyna Maryon, House Telvanni. I used to be a student here with J'zargo and Onmund."

"I remember that name," Malys spoke up, shaking her hand in kind—though wrapping her sleeve around her hand first to conceal her undead flesh. "Tolfdir told us you were helping to recolonize Morrowind after the eruption—you and one of the other instructors here … Drevis, was his name?"

Everyone present suddenly looked very stricken, and Vinye's heart sank—that sort of expression never boded well.

After a few seconds of everyone chewing their tongues, evidently unsure of what to say, Colette finally spoke up. "Tolfdir and Drevis Neloren are dead," she said gravely.

Cosette started, and Malys looked like she was biting back a curse. But Vinye suddenly felt as if a lead weight had just been swung into her stomach, and she felt a coldness seeping under her skin, a growing sense that she was freefalling through an endless abyss. _Tolfdir, dead … that's impossible … it can't be true!_

Perhaps sensing her shock, Colette went on, "They fought well, but … " She swallowed imperceptibly. "Their bodies have been … I'm not sure if I want to say. And what's more, what happened to them hasn't been seen in almost three hundred years—and never outside of Morrowind."

"Does it have anything to do with House Dagoth?" Malys inquired, her voice unusually thick. Vinye saw Faralda wince, and the Dunmer woman—Brelyna—stepped up and cleared her throat.

"The way they were mutilated suggests it was," Brelyna told them. "In the time of the Nerevarine, there used to be "ash zombies" running about on the slopes of the Red Mountain. They looked almost exactly like Toldfir and Drevis did down there—gray skin, hollowed-out heads.

J'zargo shivered. "If Grimnir found out what happened down there," he said, "this one would hate to see how much angrier he can get after today."

"Where is the Arch-Mage?" Vinye asked, noticing a distinct lack of the Dragonborn in the courtyard. "I'm guessing he's still alive, but was he badly hurt?"

No one immediately answered her. "The Arch-Mage will survive," coughed Phinis delicately, "but it took a great deal of his"—he coughed again—" _not inconsiderable_ power to assist in repelling this attack. If it were not for his efforts, we would not be having this conversation—and Winterhold, I daresay, would be deep under the Sea of Ghosts by now."

"The good news is we swept every inch of the College, above and below," Brelyna said in a shaky voice. "There's no sign of ash spawn inside, outside or under College grounds. But … the bad news is that everything else went with them."

Malys tensed up. "What are you talking about?"

Colette's voice, if anything, was even shakier. "Soon after we found Tolfdir's remains, we discovered that that entire attack by the ash spawn was a diversion. It was a ploy, so that their real mission could succeed—and it did. It's … it's all gone. Everything Dwemer that was kept inside the Midden is _gone_."

Vinye felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Kagrenac's Tools, she thought in dismay—Spellbreaker, Volendrung, the Aetherium they'd recovered … Solyn had taken them all.

 _They were gone_.

"That's all that happened on our end," Phinis Gestor coughed. "Now, I hope you can give us a very good reason why three of Winterhold's best and brightest would be delayed in repelling this regrettable offense against the College. What have you found? What did you learn?"

Vinye only needed ten words to convince him.

* * *

That was how, only a few minutes later, the Altmer found herself inside the Arch-Mage's quarters again; only this time, she was staring at the man she'd believed was invincible—who could shrug off dragons like they were nothing—lying in his bed, concealed by a brilliant white sheet inscribed with glowing sigils and runes, running in concentric circles around an empty space slightly smaller than her fist.

That space framed the scarred lips and yellow teeth of Grimnir, half-open and jammed with a dozen types of glassware, each one feeding a different type of potion through his mouth into his body—some red, others blue and green, still others glowing with colors unidentifiable to the naked eye. He looked surprisingly small against the covers.

"What happened to him?" Vinye asked no one in particular. Her whisper echoed around the silent hall, and meshed with the continuous howl of the wind outside.

Faralda exhaled, and spoke quietly, so as not to disturb the Arch-Mage. "As a Nord, Grimnir possesses an ancient magic inside his body called the Voice. According to belief, the goddess Kynareth bestowed this magic upon men when the world was first shaped. Those few that can harness the Voice, and control it, are called Tongues—because this particular magic is not cast with the hands, like any other, but through the _mouth_ ; hence, the name."

"Tongues." Cosette repeated the word slowly. "I've heard of them. Most of the Nord chieftains in the First Era were Tongues. Even Ulfric Stormcloak could be considered one himself," she added grudgingly. "But doesn't that kind of magic take years, if not _decades_ to study?"

"Normally, yes," replied Faralda. "But there's more to that legend. It's said that the strongest of these Tongues were blessed with the blood of Auriel—or Akatosh, the dragon god of time—and because of this, they became known as 'the Dragonborn.' These Dragonborn were gifted with especial knowledge of this Nordic magic—to the point where they did not need to study the Voice to grasp its power. They were able to gain knowledge of the Voice through means more … direct."

Vinye remembered the events of that dragon attacking the College—the day she had returned from Rkund, and witnessed Grimnir battling that ancient beast one-on-one. She remembered how he had snapped its neck, how its body had radiated with power, power that was absorbed into Grimnir's body—

And Vinye understood. "They're dragonslayers," she said. "They can absorb the knowledge of this 'Voice' by killing other dragons. Is that what you're saying?"

Faralda blinked. "Yes," she eventually said, "and Grimnir is one of those Dragonborn."

Vinye swallowed—even though she'd known this already, it did not make the blow to her stomach any less evident. _With that, the truth comes out,_ she thought. Behind her, she sensed that Malys and Cosette were appropriately shocked—whether out of fright or respect, the elf could not tell. But that was not where her mind was right now. "What does any of that have to do with how he ended up like this?" she asked.

J'zargo cleared his throat, and Vinye jumped—she'd forgotten the Khajiit had been standing there the whole time. "It was this Voice that allowed the Dragonborn to destroy the ash spawn. But it is also this Voice that is responsible for the state in which he lies now. J'zargo has told you, yes, of how he has slain many dragons in his day?"

Malys nodded. "So does that mean he knows much more of this Voice than any other Tongue in history?"

That prompted a short little laugh from J'zargo. "He would disagree," he said. "But this one thinks a reasonable argument could be made. Grimnir knows much about how the dragons Speak, yes—but he has delved so deeply into this knowledge that his greatest strength has now become his greatest weakness."

"Meaning?" Cosette sounded uneasy.

Faralda took the ensuing silence as an opportunity to step back in the conversation. "Over time, Grimnir's study of the Voice has taken him closer and closer to perilous ground: the nature of his draconic blood and soul—the right to _dominion_. Dragons are a very proud species, and they are power-hungry and nigh immortal as well. Grimnir harbors this pride deep within him … along with his lust for power.

"One day, he did the unthinkable—he used the Voice to tap into his own dominant nature. He nearly died doing it—and so did I. When I discovered what he had done, and recovered enough from the ordeal, I forbade him from ever using that Shout again unless innocent lives were at stake. But Grimnir repeated the experiment yesterday," the Altmer said bitterly, gazing at the Arch-Mage, "and history very nearly repeated itself."

Vinye, who had been listening with rapt attention, felt her breath catch in her throat as she remembered seeing the damage that had been done to the College on her way in. _Had Grimnir done all that,_ she thought, _just to get rid of a few intruders?_ "It must have been a display of power," she mused. "Maybe he wanted to send Solyn a message."

"Oh, there's no doubt about that," Faralda agreed. "But you weren't there yesterday. You didn't see what I saw when I had to suppress him. He didn't even recognize me—just one word of that damned Voice was enough for him to think I was another enemy. I'm quite lucky to be alive."

Vinye was aghast. _Grimnir attacked Faralda with this Shout?_ She recalled his words to her in the Midden, the day before they had left to recover Volendrung and the last piece of Aetherium.

_"One of us is going to die … "_

"You say he'll survive?" Malys wanted to know. The split halves of her face both looked anxious.

Faralda nodded, and stole another look at Grimnir. "It'll take some time, but the Arch-Mage is hardier than most men I've met in my time. Whether that's the dragon or the Nord … " She trailed off, and coughed.

For a second, Vinye thought a look of longing had flitted over her face, but then it was gone, as swiftly as it had come, and Faralda once more looked as dutiful as she had before.

"Ordinarily, I would leave the Arch-Mage to his rest," she said, "but Grimnir asked that he speak with you before we began to treat him again. I know you've discovered much in the time since you last met him, but given his condition, I would ask that you please keep it brief."

She turned to Colette and J'zargo. "Wake him."

The two senior wizards each laid a hand on the sheet, where Grimnir's forehead ought to be. There was a brief burst of turquoise light from their palms. A few seconds later, something shifted underneath all the blankets, and a low groan escaped the scarred lips of the fallen Dragonborn.

"The mages have come back, Grimnir." Faralda had to bend down to speak to roughly where his right ear should be, and she kept her voice to a whisper. "They have urgent news for you."

Not waiting for any sign of recognition, Vinye stepped forward, and Cosette and Malys followed suit. Taking a deep breath, the Altmer repeated the same ten words she'd spoken to Phinis only minutes ago.

"Solyn is a Chimer. He intends to restore House Dagoth."

"Solyn … Chimer … _Dagoth_ … " Grimnir's voice strained to he heard in the silence; it was neither angry nor thoughtful. Any semblance of emotion was muffled among all the glassware crammed in his mouth; the effect made everything feel doubly jarring to Vinye—it was as though he'd just aged thirty years.

How strange it was, she thought once more, that someone so strong could suddenly be so weak!

"He cornered us in the Rift," Cosette added, "and he took the Aetherium shards we'd collected earlier, along with Volendrung. He tried to kill us after that—keep us from making our way back to Winterhold."

"We have to find out where he's gone," Malys chimed in. "Dagoth Solyn wants to conquer Tamriel all over again—and we are the only thing standing in his way." She swallowed. "We need your help."

" _No help!_ " rasped the scarred man under the sheet—and that sheet suddenly lurched upward a few inches. It did not tear or fall off—a fact for which Vinye was inwardly grateful, as she had no desire to see his already mutilated face—but the effect was still enough to make everyone present jump in surprise.

"No help," Grimnir said again, more subdued this time. His breathing was heavy and ragged. "I already … told you, Malys. I gave … Keening. I said … no more help. You were … on your own."

Vinye could not believe what she was hearing. There was no way in Oblivion that Grimnir would dare deny them help in this crucial time! His College had just been attacked without provocation, two of his best staff had been slain—as far as she was concerned, every single person in Winterhold had a personal stake in this now!

"Arch-Mage, everything has changed!" Malys said desperately. "None of us had any idea who Solyn really was before now! We thought simply cutting off our arrangement with him would be enough—we were wrong! He's been playing us from the very beginning—no," she added with a feral growl. "It's Dagoth Ur who's been playing us, even in death!"

"We know he attacked Winterhold," piped up Cosette. "If he had succeeded, he would have moved on to Winterhold, and who knows where from there? Eastmarch? The Reach? Would he have stopped at all of Skyrim? No! Solyn is a conqueror to the bone, Arch-Mage! He struck when we were at our weakest—and if the College had fallen, he'd have free rein to run roughshod over all of Tamriel."

"And who's to say that he won't come back here to finish the job before that?" Faralda retorted. "Solyn isn't the kind of person who likes to leave loose ends—didn't you three say that you found that out yourselves?"

Cosette's arms exploded with flames at almost the same time as her temper. " _This isn't about any of us anymore!_ "

" _THU'UMU FENT NAHLOT!_ "

The glassware around Grimnir's mouth shattered with the sheer volume of his voice, and Vinye felt a faint rumbling under her feet, as if the outcrop of rock that tethered the College to Nirn was preparing to split asunder. Cosette's fire was snuffed out in an instant, and every head and eye in the room swiveled to lock on Grimnir.

The Dragonborn allowed the silence—broken only by the steady drip of spilled potion on the stone—to settle for a few more eternal moments before he spoke. "You may do what you will," he said, still lying in his bed; the scarred mouth tilted slightly to regard the three mages. "I cannot order you to a meaningless death, but neither can I tether you here to the College, waiting for an adversary that might never come. I cannot help you, either—and even if I could, what reason could you give me?

"I have spent too long being used as a means to an end," Grimnir went on, before anyone could interject. "These people out there, they do not see Grimnir Torn-Skull. Sometimes, they do not even see _Arch-Mage_ Grimnir Torn-Skull. No, they only see the _Dragonborn_." He pronounced that word with all the sting of concentrated jarrin root, and Vinye winced at the bitterness in his words. "It's time that the world learned to stop relying on the power of one man to change the world. That time is over. It's time the world _grew up_."

With those final two words, Grimnir sank back in his bed with a short burst of coughing—each spasm a cold nail to Vinye's body, colder than the ice magic of Malys. The Altmer felt bile rise in her mouth as she looked at the wretched form beneath the blanket.

 _What had the Dragonborn done_ —no, she amended, what had _Arch-Mage Grimnir_ done— _that he would become so bitter, so weary of the world around him?_ Vinye wondered if this was truly the same Nord who had defeated Alduin four years ago—there was no way it could be. That man had been hailed as a hero—but the old man beneath the sheet and shattered glassware was no hero. He believed himself to be a relic of the past—a _weapon_ , a _tool_ —when in reality, he was part of a culture that not only revered heroism and honor as part of their culture, but also looked to heroes and honorable men for guidance and intercession. How could he not see this simple fact?

_What had happened to this man?_

Faralda and Colette bustled forward in the wake of Grimnir's tirade. "We must begin," the Altmer instructor said quietly, though in a tone that was not to be questioned. Thus dismissed, Cosette and Malys slowly made their way out of the chamber, while the two senior wizards began installing fresh glassware and potions in Grimnir's mouth. J'zargo followed them before long, though not without taking a very long look at the occupied bed.

Vinye was last to leave—she wanted desperately to do so, but her legs refused to move, as if Solyn's paralysis spell had snared her once again. Her mind was a raging storm of emotion, focused solely on the scarred Nord before her. She could not decide if what she was feeling the most was pity for the broken Dragonborn … or sheer disgust for a man who had just acted no better than her father.

She did not wait to discover the truth for herself, though; after a moment of time that felt like an entire era, the high elf turned on her heel, and walked out of Grimnir's quarters without any intention of saying goodbye.

* * *

_Rkund_

The ancient golden doors of the Reliquary yawned open, and Dagoth Solyn strode through them, attended by a pair of his ash spawn. One carried the hammer Volendrung in both hands like a newborn child, while the other held Spellbreaker and the Aetherium-tipped pickaxe in each of its rough hands.

After taking care of the miners he'd hired to maintain the façade behind his true motives, Solyn had made his way to the lowest level of Rkund with all haste. The lamps were lit, and the automatons within stirred in their slumber at these new intruders. But Solyn knew how to control them; he had had thousands of years to raise the limits of his magic above the comprehension of others. A simple burst of calming magic from both of his hands was enough to pacify the guardians of the Reliquary.

As they looked on— _could_ automatons truly see? Solyn wondered apropos of nothing—the Chimer made his way to the center of the chamber, where rested the three plinths constructed to receive Kagrenac's Tools. These Solyn produced from his own person, extracting them from his robe one at a time with each platform.

Slowly, reverently, he laid each Tool into its respective slot. First came Keening—Solyn could feel the history of this crystal blade simply by touching it, and he noted with calm surprise the presence of family here; _Odros_ , he had been called. One of Lord Voryn's brothers, he remembered, and part of the nobility of his House.

Keening slid into its specially carved niche, and there was a faint rumble from above. Solyn and his ash spawn looked upward, their attention diverted, but after a few seconds of calm, the Chimer resumed his work.

He relinquished Sunder next—and again, Dagoth Solyn heard the echoes of the past as his fingers caressed the metal hammer. Vemyn, _he_ had been called, another of his father's brothers; Vemyn had elected to guard this artifact personally. Solyn wondered if they could all see what he was doing now—Odros and Vemyn, and all the rest of them—and he could hear their voices in his mind, congratulating the prodigal son for pleasing his House, his _family_ with this duty.

Another rumble issued from the rocky ceiling, louder and longer this time, as the hammer Sunder was fitted into its groove. Lastly, there was Wraithguard. There was nothing of his House to be traced within this artifact, though; both of these armored gauntlets were rank with the memory of Vivec. Solyn cursed him—that two-faced usurper had been the cause of all this, him and the rest of the greedy Tribunal!

As if worried that the remnants of that demigod's touch might contaminate him, the Chimer deposited the pair of gauntlets into its receptacle with a little more force than was necessary. But the action paid off—there was a third rumble from above, followed quickly by a deep crunch as something shifted in the rocks above, and the turning of many massive gears.

Solyn suspected he needed to stand clear—whatever was up there sounded rather large, and rather unstable on top of it. He blinked, for only an instant, and then he was at the edge of the Reliquary, having teleported to a safe distance from the Tools.

And he was right to do so; the next moment, the middle of the ceiling caved in on where he'd previously been standing, revealing a smooth, dome-like shape the size of a canton carved into the rock. That dome was fast descending, supported by a massive cylinder of metal and stone. The earthen contraption hit the central platform with a massive crunching noise—but it did not break; it went with the impact, drawing the endless tube of rock down with it into some unknown depth. Solyn noted that there was not a single gap between the cylinder and the space where the platform had once been.

Finally, the descent of the stone mechanism slowed, and finally stopped—and the Chimer was intrigued to see that on top of all this, the cylinder was hollow: an archway, just wide and thin enough to fit a fairly grown person, had actually been carved inside the solid rock, and wound around its axis like the thread of a screw.

Instinctively, Solyn knew what he had to do. He retrieved the three Tools from their places, and put them back in his robe. "Leave me," he instructed his ash spawn, and pointed to the one with the Aetherium pickaxe. "Return to the Cathedral. Begin your excavations there. Extract as much as you can within the hour, and deliver it to me."

Solyn then took Volendrung and Spellbreaker from the other ash spawn. "Take half of the converted miners, and have them assist in the Cathedral," he ordered it. "You will take the rest to reactivate the workshops inside the Animunculory. Direct every automaton inside the citadel to the Reliquary and stand by. Be thorough, but do not delay."

The ash spawn were slow to salute, but salute they did, and they soon departed from the Reliquary, leaving Solyn to make his way down to whatever laid below this lowest level of Rkund. The Chimer was fascinated indeed by this development—none of the plans within the city had mentioned a mechanism quite like this. Had they been lost to time, reduced to dust? Or had the dwarves foolishly believed they could circumvent the designs of his father?

He entered the spiraling staircase, and immediately he felt a searing wind on his face, a result of pressure from the heat of whatever was down here. Now that it had an outlet after being sealed away all this time, that hot air was now forcing its way through the staircase. The torches lining the stairs were blown out by the blast of heated air, and so Solyn was forced to conjure a mage-light to float in front of his face, illuminating the path ahead as he continued his descent.

The golden elf sensed that it did not matter, however; after a minute or so of walking, he could see a light at the tunnel—orange and burning. The heat was unbearable, and only the sheer power of curiosity allowed Solyn to power on through.

When he saw what awaited him at the bottom of the staircase, he was glad he did. As he took in the sight of what lay in front of him, he realized that he had been wrong this whole time. This staircase, and what it led to, had never been a creation of the dwarves. Once again, Solyn had underestimated the creativity and ingenuity of Dagoth Ur.

Unable to form words at the surprise before his golden eyes, the Chimer's shock gave way to joy, and soon, Dagoth Solyn was laughing. Not the cackle of a mortal drunk with power, but something with more good cheer to it, as if he'd just been told a long-winded joke with a punch line that paid for itself and more. Or perhaps more accurately, he'd had a friendly card game—if one with rather high stakes—against one of his brethren; whether he'd won or lost that game, it didn't matter anymore.

Because Dagoth Ur had just assured his son from the grave that four thousand years of exile were about to pay off.

_Thank you, Father …_

* * *

_Winterhold_

All was quiet in the Arcaneum. Even Urag was surprisingly silent, only pausing to sniff every now and again as he sat there at his desk, doing absolutely nothing but staring off into blank space.

Vinye wished desperately he would say something—that _anyone_ would say something to break this uncomfortable silence. It had been a whole day since she, Cosette, and Malys had seen Grimnir in his room upstairs, and since then, none of the three had mustered up the will to even speak, so numb were they from the shock of recent events.

For that, at least, Vinye could not blame anyone. Thirty-one people had died in this attack, she'd been told. That included the guards, two instructors—one of whom was the Master Wizard of the College—and four students who'd been a little slow in getting to safety from the first wave. This was a crushing blow in itself, but everyone now knew that their own Arch-Mage—the _Dragonborn_ , of all people—was out of commission for Divines only knew how long. There would be funeral proceedings, of course—but until Grimnir had recovered, they would have to wait.

Malys was hardly even paying attention to the dog-eared book in her lap. The vampire turned the worn pages listlessly, her yellow eyes seeing without really seeing anything. Cosette, like Urag, wasn't doing anything at all—simply staring at the bookshelves in front of her as though she was expecting them to burst into flame.

"I can't believe the Dragonborn's our Arch-Mage," Cosette said finally. Her eyes flickered briefly to Vinye. "Did you know this whole time?"

The elf nodded. "Since that dragon attack," she replied. "I didn't have time to get inside to safety—but I remember seeing him fight that dragon, plain as day." She still remembered hearing the sound of Grimnir snapping its neck.

If Cosette had a reply to that, she did not voice it. The Breton chewed her tongue for a few seconds longer, then returned to staring at the walls.

Silence reigned for some of the longest minutes Vinye had ever experienced—until finally, Cosette tore her eyes away with a groan. "We can't just sit here!" she burst out. "We've got to do _something_ about this!"

Malys did not look up from her book. "What _can_ we do?" she retorted bitterly. "Solyn's trail has gone completely cold. We have no idea where he is! We don't even know what he's after! And even if we do find out, what are we going to do about it?! The Dragonborn is the only hope we have at taking him on—and he swatted us away like _flies!_ "

"It's not hard to guess where he's gone," said Vinye quietly, hollowly. "He already has all three Tools. Most likely he went back to Rkund—those carvings on the stone tables, remember? Solyn needs them for something—maybe the Tools, they're … keys, to open some other door? I don't know." She huffed.

"They were more than that," Malys told her. "Kagrenac created the Tools because he wanted to access the power of the Heart of Lorkhan as well, so that every single Dwemer could be like the gods. Keys to the key, if you want to put it that … way … "

The vampire suddenly paled, and stood up very suddenly, as if she'd just been told a close relative had passed away.

"That's what he's after." Malys' eyes were wide open in shock. "Solyn is trying to find the Heart of Lorkhan! So many people have used the Tools to draw its power into themselves, make themselves into gods—Kagrenac, Dagoth Ur, the Tribunal—!"

"What are you getting at?" Cosette interrupted. "I thought the Heart was lost when the Nerevarine destroyed it, right? Isn't that what happened?"

"When I stole Keening," answered Malys, "Grimnir told me the Heart of Lorkhan was only removed from the world—he never said it was destroyed. I don't think the heart of a god is something you _can_ completely destroy—even a dead one." She leaned in close to Cosette and Vinye. "What if Solyn figured that out, too? If Kagrenac's Tools can draw power from the Heart … then maybe it could draw the whole thing back to our reality!"

It was Vinye's turn to blanch. "Malys, I don't think it stops there," she said, her voice shaky. "What did Dagoth Ur intend to do with the Heart of Lorkhan? He didn't just want to draw its power, right?"

Malys nodded numbly—yes, Vinye guessed, she did indeed know.

"Akulakhan," said the Dunmer. "The Second Numidium. But he couldn't possibly have what he needs to—where are you going?!"

For Vinye had already sprung from her chair, making for the stairs and her quarters in the Hall of Attainment. Her mind had already been made up, even as Malys had confirmed her worst fears.

"We have to stop Solyn," Vinye told them resolutely. "If he does manage to reconstitute the Heart of Lorkhan, he really _will_ have everything he needs. He'll have the power of a god at his fingertips, a thousand-foot-tall _animunculus_ at his beck and call, and who only knows what else."

"Just like Tiber Septim did," said Cosette in shock, as the gravity of the situation finally sunk in for her.

"Exactly," Vinye said. "Only this time, I don't think Solyn will settle for being Emperor of Tamriel. He wants more—but we're not going to let that happen."

"And how exactly are we going to go about that?" protested Cosette. "I might be hotheaded most of the time, but even I know when I'm in over my head. And right now, we are so far in over our heads that we might as well be in Peryite's Pits! And trust me, I know what it's like being in Peryite's Pits," she added.

"Cozy's right, Vinye." The Altmer knew Malys was trying to be reassuring, but right now, the vampire was just wasting time and breath. "There's no way we can do this alone—we have to have some kind of help for this!"

"We've gone it alone before," Vinye said flatly. "We've all been inside Dwarven ruins at least once—on our own—and we survived. Even the Dragonborn can't claim that," she said as an afterthought.

Cosette's mouth was half-open. "Is that what this is about?" she asked incredulously. "Just because he turned us all down—you want to send us to certain death just to _spite him_?"

Vinye said nothing. Truthfully, she wasn't sure how to answer that question. Her more vindictive side wanted to say that yes, that was the case—now was her chance to prove herself; all her failures at those institutions in Cyrodiil, whether or not they were caused by the intrigue and ineptitude of her colleagues there, had merely been practice for this one moment. She truly believed that she had the power and the knowledge to make this work.

But her mind still went back to the Dragonborn, lying above them in his bed, being attended to by the remaining senior wizards of the College, along with more arcane methods that none of the three mages could fully grasp.

She huffed again. For all the Altmer cared, the Dragonborn could stay there. _If he wants the world to grow up_ , she thought bitterly, _then he can watch from his bed._

"I don't know abut spiting him," she answered Cosette. "But it's high time I proved myself to him. Don't you all have something to prove yourselves?

"You've wanted to be strong, Cosette, for … whatever reason or another," she said to the Breton, before turning to Malys. "What about you? Don't you have any stake in this?"

The vampire sighed, and stretched her arms with a grunt. "That depends on your point of view," Malys remarked, cracking her neck despite repeated winces from Cosette. "I already think I'm pretty strong. I've learned about magic I never knew existed these last few weeks—never mind that that magic was apparently in me the whole time," she added under her breath, so Urag could not hear.

The Dunmer set her split jaw. "But I know more than any of you about what we're going up against. Solyn is what my people used to be, in the old days. That means he knows magic that nobody in the last _three eras_ could even _begin_ to master."

"Are you trying to dissuade me again, Malys?" Vinye asked. "I'm already going."

"And he and I have a score to settle—don't forget that," added Cosette, as she toyed with one of her Forsworn swords.

Malys rolled her glowing eyes. "I wasn't going to," she shrugged, cracking her knuckles—again Cosette winced with each successive _pop_. "I just want to make sure you two don't rush in when we see that bastard again."

Cosette made what Vinye assumed was her idea of a winning smile. It was not a pretty sight. "Me? Never," she said, baring her teeth. "I want him to see _me_ first."

"Then let's get going," said Vinye, standing up from her chair. "We'll pack everything our bags can fit. Clear out the student stocks if you have to—I have a feeling we're going to need every last potion we can spare. But don't take too long—the more time we take getting to Rkund, the more chance we'll be handing Solyn the world on a silver platter."

There was silent agreement from both Malys and Cosette. All three mages wasted no time in hurrying for the Hall of Attainment as if the local wolves were snapping at their heels.

None of them heard Urag chuckle to himself as they departed the Arcaneum.

"Didn't even have to say a word this time, Arch-Mage," the Orc said half to himself, before picking up one of the many ancient tomes lining his desk and opening it without another word.

* * *

Grimnir Torn-Skull continued to lay in his bed, only half-aware of the world around him. Dark, formless shapes moved through what little of his vision he retained. Slowly but surely, the slurry of potion trickling down his throat was beginning to take effect.

Within his dreams, he saw shadow and blood. The seas were no longer of water, but of flames that rose ever higher, roaring with the voice of gods and chasing him through the valleys of Skyrim as if they had a mind of their own. As Grimnir ran through the dream world, he saw many things, and many places and people as well.

He saw Riverwood and Whiterun consumed in hellfire in the time it took to blink. Sky Haven Temple, the mountain fortress of the Blades, crumbled like a child's sand castle. Even Winterhold, College and all, did not escape this apocalypse; the magic encircling the cliffsides failed, and the entire town was swallowed up in fire and death.

And finally, as he ran to the highest ground of all—the Throat of the World—in an attempt to escape the flames, High Hrothgar, the monastery of the Greybeards, exploded with the force of a bomb before it, too, was consumed.

All the while, Grimnir heard the same word, over and over in his mind like a battle chant, shaking the earth with every ragged breath he heaved, and every step that fell on the snow:

" _Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin!_ "

He saw the gravestone where Paarthurnax made his roost, worn smooth by the wind and snow, and the passage of uncountable years. But there was no one else here today—no other men, no other dragons—and in this dream of his, Grimnir knew why.

" _Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin!_ "

The single word grew louder, until Grimnir's ears threatened to bleed from the din. The flames were now higher than ever. They had cornered him, here—he was right where they wanted him to be.

" _Tahrovin! Tahrovin! TAHROVIN! TAHROVIN!_ "

As the chanting reached a crescendo, the earth suddenly gave a mighty heave, and Grimnir was sent sprawling into the melting snow. With great effort, he saw the sky with his single eye—brown and thick, almost like rocks instead of clouds. The Arch-Mage chanced a look behind him, and saw that the mountaintop had been displaced, blasted into dust by sheer force of will.

In its place, he beheld a shimmering dragon, larger by far than any he had ever seen in his life. Its eyes burned ice blue, and its golden scales roared with the same fire that now encircled Grimnir. The air around it was like a great Dwarven furnace.

 ** _"Meyz nu Tahrovin,"_** rumbled the dragon. ** _"Dahmaan daar rok!"_**

Flaming wings the size of High Hrothgar unfurled, sending fiery gusts in all directions, and knocking Grimnir to his feet once again. He screamed in pain as his back hit the earth—but he did not hit the snow this time; he did not even his the rough rock below it.

No, the rock beneath his back was smooth, shaped not by time and nature, but by men and their tools. Slowly, the Arch-Mage clambered to his feet, and saw that the scene of his surroundings had changed.

The golden dragon had disappeared from Grimnir's sight, replaced by yet more of the flat surface. Around him, the fire that had once circled the Throat of the World was still there, but now it was mixed with jagged rocks, and bubbled and hissed like a foul brew. Above him, the sky was no longer a sky, but a solid mass of brown rock dotted with stalactites that could either pierce even a man like him. And the smooth rock at his feet … Grimnir knew what he would find even before he saw the remainder of the platform, and the hundred-foot-wide circle of golden filigree that lined it—for only the Dwemer were such masters of craftsmanship, especially in the deep places of the world.

Grimnir had no memory of this place—he had never visited a place so deep beneath the surface in his life. So what was he doing here? He wondered, for only a moment, if he had been abducted—but the thought was impossible! He would have known if an intruder was in Winterhold, never mind his private chambers, even if—

 _Don't get up, Dragonborn_ , a familiar voice suddenly whispered in his mind. _You've been through a lot—make yourself comfortable._

Grimnir growled under his breath. Now it all made sense: it was an illusion, no more real than his dream from before. He had been caught in this elaborate trap in his sleep, when he was at his weakest.

But while this answered one question, it had raised so many others—and Grimnir doubted that the person who had called him here would be willing to answer any of them.

 _You've got a lot of nerve to say that, Solyn,_ the Arch-Mage shot back, _seeing as you were the cause behind all this death and destruction._ He aimed his retort at nowhere in particular; the elf was nowhere to be seen.

 _I wonder about that_ , the elf laughed. _I've already seen what can happen when a dragon breaks its leash. You've been lucky thus far, I'll admit … though I wonder how much longer it will be before your power comes at the cost of innocent blood, hmm?_

Grimnir did not like that tone of voice. _Why am I here, Solyn?_ Changing the train of thought was all he could do to avoid losing his temper at this elf.

 _I wanted to show you something,_ Solyn replied, _a gift from my father—his last and greatest gift to the last of House Dagoth. Do you see it yet?_

Grimnir scanned the area around him in a long, wide circle, but could find nothing but giant pillars of rock, rising and sinking into the endless lake of magma. Several of the stalactites above him shifted in their position, crumbling into the molten mass, and Grimnir could barely make out the rounded edges of pipes high above him. He willed his single eye to look directly above him, and he saw a smooth expanse of rock and golden metal. This platform he'd been transported to must have come from there, he noted, as he saw a perfectly circular hole in the exact center of this ceiling.

_What am I looking at?_

_Nothing_ , came the reply. _You are looking at nothing at all. But if you had my vision, Dragonborn, you would be looking at everything you could ever ask for._ That _is the gift my father has given to me._

 _What?_ Grimnir was confused, and his patience was wearing thin. _Why do you continue to talk in riddles, Solyn?_

He felt a brief sensation of annoyance from the unseen elf. _Because you lack vision, Dragonborn_ , he replied. _You are an instrument of ruin and death. That is all you have ever known in your brief life as a living legend. Is that how you want to be remembered, Dragonborn—as a destroyer? Or would you become something_ more, _as I have—a_ creator … _a_ god?

Countless eternities bloomed and faded in Grimnir's mind before he realized he could not think of any real answer. It was in a dragon's nature to rule, to have dominion—what form that dragon took, whether skin and bone or scale and bone, did not change this simple fact.

What, indeed, had he _created_ as Dragonborn? He had saved the world, yes—but he had _destroyed_ Alduin to do so. And he had saved the world again, several times over—but there, too, he had _destroyed_. He had killed men, elves, dragons, and even another of his own kind to become the living legend he was now. Even his mastery of the _Thu'um_ —though he could apply it in ways that no one, Tongue or dragon, had ever dreamed of before—was not his own design. He had merely learned the _Rotmulaag_ , the Words of Power that made up the _Thu'um_ , and had been taught to Shout by the Greybeards.

But none of this had ever been Grimnir's doing. He had never truly _created_ …

* * *

 _"_ Dov wahlaan fah rel, _" Paarthurnax had told him once. "We were made to dominate—and for no other purpose. The will to seek power is in our blood. I have overcome my nature only through meditation and long study of the Way of the Voice. But no day goes by where I am not tempted to return to my inborn nature."_

_Grimnir had remembered asking, "If you did, would you consider yourself evil? Would you consider all the Jarls and High Kings of Skyrim evil, along with the Emperors of Tamriel? What of the other rulers—the Manes of Elsweyr, the Councilors of Morrowind, anyone who has ever desired power—should they be evil, too?"_

_"_ Suleyk fen du unslaad, _" the ancient dragon had replied. "Power corrupts._ Jul _and_ dov _alike will always desire more of it. I do not wish to._ Zu'u ni ov. _"_

_And then Grimnir had asked, "What if I was one of them?"_

_Without waiting for a reply, he had shown Paarthurnax the new Shout he had learned—the same Shout he would later show to Faralda on that fateful night in the Sea of Ghosts—and through the golden light and swirling haze of magic, through that black mist of unquenchable hunger, he had seen Paarthurnax' eyes for only a moment._

_The sadness in those rheumy eyes, nearly blind from cataracts and age, was enough to break the Dragonborn's hold. Grimnir had left the_ Monahven _, then, without speaking another word to Paarthurnax._

_They had not spoken since …_

* * *

_… I am as my father made me_ , Grimnir eventually responded, remembering the first words that the grandmaster of the Greybeards had spoken to him all those years ago. _That is enough._

Solyn did not seem fazed, for good or ill, by the lack of an answer. _It matters not_ , he said dismissively. _What you see before you is the_ space _to make my imagination—my_ father's _imagination—become reality. Watch now, Grimnir Torn-Skull. From this lowest fire of Nirn, I will do what none of the Dragonborn ever could—not even you._

The earth rumbled, and several of the smaller stalactites were dislodged into the magma. An unquantifiable mass of golden metal surged from the ceiling of the cave, and Grimnir saw numerous pipes, boilers, pistons and vents of every shape and size imaginable floating through the air and towards the platform on which he stood. The clamor of stone on metal and metal against metal was deafening.

And yet, Solyn's voice still somehow managed to drown out the din.

_I will sweep away the last remnants of the old Empire, and the fledgling Stormcloaks with them. I will unite my shattered children, the dark elves, in their rightful place in Morrowind once again, and drive their oppressors back to the Marsh from whence they came. The peoples and nations of Nirn—the Four Tribes of Akavir, and even the kingdoms of Thras and the Maormer—will look to my father's standard once more._

The thousands of components swirled around the dais, but even as Grimnir watched, the entire mass of metal began to coagulate into more complex mechanisms, whose purpose he could not discern. Knowing what he knew, though, Grimnir guessed it wasn't anything good—and Solyn's next declaration confirmed it.

 _I will create a new world_.

The pits of rock and lava shrank away from his vision, and Grimnir felt his mind rushing back into its mortal shell, still supine under the covers, crammed with glassware and being force-fed yet more of that foul-tasting potion.

The Nord's mind was racing after seeing a wider scope of Solyn's power and potential. There was no doubt in his mind that he was fully capable of accomplishing quite a bit on that particular list. Not having traveled to Thras or Akavir, he could not be certain of this, but thus far, everything seemed to be possible as far as Solyn was concerned.

But that did not matter to Grimnir now. Right now, nothing mattered to him at all—except for one thing.

In spite of his recurring nightmare—in spite of Solyn's condescension and goading—the Arch-Mage knew that both he _and_ this elf were in the wrong. There was _one_ thing he had created; a force that he had been creating for years, ever since he had learned he was Dragonborn.

Grimnir had seen that force in action with the people he had encountered throughout the world in the short time since—with the city of Whiterun, where he had mounted a dragon for the first time in his life; with the Greybeards, who had recognized him as Dragonborn as they had the likes of Ysmir Wulfharth and Tiber Septim; and even with the Blades, who had seen in him a spark that had nearly been snuffed out by the endless, relentless gambits of the Thalmor.

It was this force that was guiding Grimnir's body upwards, out of his bed, sending glass bottles both full and empty of potion to the floor. He no longer needed them—he felt rejuvenated now, younger, and even _stronger_.

He yanked the sheet from his body, and his scarred face and single eye stared back at Faralda and Colette, who had leapt to their feet at his awakening. J'zargo and Phinis, too, were alert at this unexpected turn of events. But in them, he could see a sense of uncertainty. He wondered briefly if they doubted him—he had doubted his own self once, a long time ago.

But Faralda was speaking, and so the Arch-Mage put his thoughts to rest.

"W-what are you doing?" the Altmer stammered out. "You can't rush yourself, Grimnir—you need to take this slowly! Even you aren't invincible, and you're certainly not young, either!"

"I certainly feel like I am," said Grimnir coolly, sliding the rusted iron mask of the dragon priest Hevnoraak over his face. The enchantments on that artifact, which the former master of the tomb-city Valthume had used in his plot to become an all-powerful lich, instantly nullified the pain he felt from the injuries he had sustained—both in his fight with Solyn's ash spawn, and those he'd sustained over the course of his life. They could still heal, but they would not suffer any further damage as long as he was wearing this mask.

Now, Grimnir truly _did_ feel like he was at the peak of his prime.

"Where are those three mages you sent for?" he asked. "I need to see them again, now!"

No one spoke for a long while. " … They're gone, Arch-Mage," Colette said nervously. "You've been out for two days. They left for Rkund at the first light of dawn— _yesterday_."

Grimnir stayed absolutely still for five whole seconds while he processed this information. He bit his tongue, holding back his curses, before he finally spoke. "All right. This changes things. I need to get to them before they can get to Rkund." He was speaking to himself more than to everyone else. "It's mid-evening now … if they left this morning … that ought to put them somewhere in Eastmarch right now … possibly Kynesgrove … "

"I'll send for a courier," Phinis chimed in as the Arch-Mage continued to mutter to himself. "Maybe they can tell us how far along they are. With any luck, they could find our mages before you do."

"No, they won't." Grimnir was already donning his robe, and rummaging in the trunk at the foot of his bed for several more personal effects. "Couriers might cover a wider area, but they're still too slow. Speed is crucial here—if I don't have that, then there's nothing more I can do. There's only one way I can get to them quickly."

He emerged from the chest holding a long, elaborately carved staff that made Faralda's jaw drop. Grimnir could read the expression of disbelief all over her face. She knew he only used that staff in circumstances that even the Dragonborn considered dire. In his mind, this situation certainly fit all the qualifications.

"Faralda, you have the College until I return," Grimnir told the Altmer. He sighed. "It would seem the world hasn't seen enough of me yet."

He tipped an informal salute at everyone present, and then he made for the stairs that led to the top of the College—though not before hearing Faralda tell the others to put their fingers in their ears.

As he ascended to the top of the College, Grimnir recalled the words of an old Nordic song he'd started hearing a few years ago, shortly after the news had broken of his defeat of the dragon Mirmulnir. He hadn't much cared for it—Grimnir had never been particular to the sounds of music throughout his life, whether by the lute or the minstrel.

And yet, some part of him could not resist singing the words under his breath, as he stood in the chilly air of Winterhold:

_"For the darkness has passed,_

_And the legend yet grows._

_You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come … "_

* * *

An hour after discovering the vast lake of lava and turning it into the equivalent of his own personal sandbox, Dagoth Solyn was still smiling. The ash spawn he had tasked to excavate the materials he desired in the Cathedral had returned to him—and each of the full dozen or so carried a large chunk of it in their rocky hands.

It would do—for a start.

The other group of ash spawn had been doing their jobs quite admirably as well, he thought. He hadn't sent them out for half an hour before the first of the rumblings echoed through the citadel. Some of them had been lost under the ensuing debris, unfortunately, but that had been to be expected. It was best that that work was done with something more … _expendable_ than a four-thousand-year-old elf.

The Chimer bade the ash spawn deposit it all inside his new contraption, and one by one, they fed it all to the machine. It would take time before the forge was hot enough to properly work it all. And Solyn knew from his conversation with Grimnir, on the other side of the province, that he was due to respond very soon—if he hadn't already.

Yet he could already see what he wanted to create next with his spoils. He had drawn plans, and made the adequate measurements. And Kagrenac's Tools still had one more part to play, he thought; even Volendrung and Spellbreaker would be useful as well. Solyn had been itching to delve into those particular pieces especially; he'd always wanted to see what made a Daedric artifact tick.

But there was still the issue of _time_.

Which was why Solyn decided it was time to try out _this_ particular spell. It was not the most advanced of its kind, nor would it have the widest effect—on at least one occasion, the Dwemer had used it on an entire city, not merely a fortress such as this. But it would provide an effective stopgap, and certainly slow down anything that the College of Winterhold intended to throw back at him.

He raised his hands, and knelt on one knee within the center of the immensely complex rune he had spent the last thirty minutes inscribing. "I am that is, always was, and always will be," he chanted. Purplish-blue magicka spilled from his fingers, then his hands, until finally his whole arms were burning with it.

"I invoke in the name of my ancestors, and for revenge!" he shouted. "Let this invocation prove my dedication and my worth to the lost House of Dagoth!"

The wave of magicka that had been building up inside him finally exploded. As it radiated from his body, Solyn thought he saw the ash spawn move in blurs for a few moments before the spell washed over them, too.

It was not a perfect casting, not by any stretch of the imagination—much less Solyn's. But it would suffice; at the very least, it would provide him enough time to set his affairs in order before the Arch-Mage inevitably came to call.

For a moment, the Chimer almost regretted using the miners to make more of his ash spawn. Perhaps then he might have had someone to talk to while he worked—ash spawn could be dutiful enough, and certainly understood orders, but his constructs sadly lacked the social grace to make more _proper_ conversation.

Then again, Solyn had spent more than three thousand years inside what was almost certainly the most secluded plane of reality in all of Aurbis. Any period of loneliness in Rkund would be a light nap compared to what he had endured in the Outer Realms.

And speaking of … Solyn suddenly found himself very tired. He'd been busy these past few weeks, he was aware—he'd expended a lot of energy and magicka in a short timespan, and even being thousands of years older than most of the population of Tamriel didn't mean that even his own body didn't answer its own mortal nature.

He knew he would have enough time … yes, his spell would make sure of that. And the ash spawn would continue to do his bidding; they were truly tireless, and had no need for sleep.

Therefore, Solyn spread out his hands, and bid some of his ash come forth. Brown clouds swirled around him—large enough to wrap around his frame, and dense enough to support it. The Chimer let himself fall back into their embrace, and let himself drift off to sleep with a satisfied smile.

He had all the time in the world now …

* * *

_Kynesgrove_

"I told you we should have stopped in Windhelm," Vinye grumbled as they left the Braidwood Inn. It was morning, and they'd been making good enough time to where the Altmer had called for a rest break here last night. "Trust an innkeeper to have enough potions to make an apothecary set for life, I think not!"

"It's not my fault they'd have me in irons just for looking at them the wrong way!" Cosette protested.

"And it's not my fault that they have no respect for my life choices," Malys chimed in, only for Cosette to scoff back at her.

"I'm pretty sure some of those choices _were_ your fault, Malys," muttered the Breton. "It didn't sound like you _chose_ to be a vampire."

"Not what I was talking about," said the Dunmer airily.

But Vinye would have none of it. "We'll have to head to Riften again," she said, raising her voice just slightly to where she could head off the banter between Malys and Cosette. "Maybe this guild war within the walls has toned down enough to where we can actually enter the city limits for a change. Barring that, maybe some of the shopkeepers are taking their business outside the city walls."

"And what about actually getting to Rkund?" Cosette asked her. "I'm not climbing any more mountains—and just because I'm undead doesn't mean I want to meet any necromancers, either. So Darklight Tower, or … whatever that place is called, is out of the question."

"We could find a mercenary," mused Malys. "Someone who knows the lay of the land well. Actually, I think Mzulft isn't too far away. Let's head inside there for a bit," she suggested, "see if there's anything more we can scrounge up and turn into septims?"

Vinye considered this, and felt it was as good an idea as any—a mercenary meant they might have some measure of help against Solyn—or at least, a marginally better chance of survival.

Unfortunately, the dark shape falling from the sky didn't seem to share her reservations.

She only became aware of it at the shadow spreading on the ground under their feet. Cosette and Malys saw this, too, and immediately they whirled towards the Velothi mountain range, where the sun would normally glint off the mountaintops like great, jagged blades in the midst of war.

Except right now, something black and formless was blocking the sun, and getting larger and larger with each passing second. Then, one shadow suddenly became three, one on each side of the original shadow. Vinye stood there in abject confusion, wondering what in the world could cause a shadow like that.

Then it hit her. Those weren't separate shadows at all; they all belonged to the same shape … a shape that a suddenly horrified Vinye now recognized as wings—giant, leathery wings.

_Oh, no._

By the time she'd made the connection, the dragon had already flapped its wings once—causing a miniature microburst that sent the mages sprawling to the road. Then, it dived straight down—and landed mere feet away from them with the force of a hundred giants' footsteps.

Cosette and Malys scrabbled away from the great beast, and its attention was focused solely on Vinye now. The Altmer was well aware that her robes had been soiled from within now—this was the closest she'd ever come to facing a member of the nigh invincible species, and there was absolutely no way she would survive to see another one. Vinye curled up into a ball, not daring to open her eyes, not wanting to make her imminent death any more painful than it had to be—and _why had it not killed her yet?!_

Slowly, Vinye peeked out from one eye, and beheld the monster in much greater detail than she'd ever seen any other dragon up to this point—blood red with eyes the color of charcoal, a narrow snout wreathed in horns as long as her arm, and lined with spines taller than the mage sitting astride it—

Vinye blinked. Something was wrong with that picture.

She looked again.

The mage was still sitting on top of the dragon.

Something was still wrong with that picture.

But she did not care—she knew how that her eyes had not been seeing things, and suddenly she was almost beside herself in a special kind of laughter that drew a thin line between relief and insanity. Malys and Cosette, on the other hand, were beside themselves with anger at the scene before them, too distracted to notice Vinye's laughter.

For astride the spikiest dragon she had ever seen was Grimnir Torn-Skull—iron mask and all—holding onto the horns of the beast as if they were the reins of a horse. An ancient-looking staff was slung over his shoulder, and he stared down at the mages with what could have been any of a million different expressions.

Vinye did not care about that.

_The Dragonborn had come._

"W-what are you doing here?" She found it very difficult to form words.

Grimnir did not immediately respond. "Dragons like to hoard treasure," he said softly, almost inaudible over the breathing of the dragon beneath him. "They like to take, but very rarely do they like to give.

"I was too harsh with you, the last time we met," Grimnir went on. "I let the Dragonborn do the talking for me. But you can say what you want—for all my magic, I'm not here as the Dragonborn today. I'm here as Arch-Mage of Winterhold right now."

Cosette, for once, was totally silent. Malys was left to ask her own question. "Does that mean you're helping us after all?"

"I've only been able to create one thing in my life," Grimnir said in reply. "Everything else, I've only learned through destruction and ruin. But if I can be here, with you, I know I can create that one thing—and I think that could be the one thing that helps take Solyn down for good this time."

Cosette looked skeptical. "And what _thing_ is that?" she asked.

Vinye thought it looked as though the iron mask was seeing right through the Breton. "I can create _hope_ ," said Grimnir. "Hope for you, hope for the College, for Skyrim … perhaps even hope for the world."

"Then let's do it," said Malys, "before this world gets ground under Solyn's boot." Cosette nodded—though past experience, along with the way she gripped her Forsworn blades, told Vinye that the Culler still had revenge for being robbed of Taron's execution on the brain.

But just as quickly as she nodded, the Breton suddenly looked mortified. "No. No, we can't be going that way."

Vinye was confused. What did Cosette mean by _"that way"_?

Then she noticed the way she was looking at the dragon—and realization hit the Altmer almost at the same time as her stomach hit the roof of her throat. There was no way Grimnir was thinking what she was thinking, was there?

_… Was there?!_

"Time is of the essence," Grimnir told them, shifting forward a little and showing more of the dragon's scaly neck. "If we want to find Solyn in time, then you're all going to have to climb on. Besides," he added—and Vinye was certain he was smiling under that mask—, "We should all experience at least one thrill of a lifetime in our lives, shouldn't we?"

Cosette looked as if she wanted to object. Malys looked a little apprehensive herself. But before Vinye and the others could say anything, Grimnir had clicked his fingers, and the three mages found themselves lifted bodily into the air by the Arch-Mage's magic. Vinye felt a brief period of weightlessness—as if she was suspended in a sphere of water, breathable like air, before feeling the rigidness of the dragon's spines pushing against her chest and back.

Looking forward and back, she saw Malys and Cosette wedged onto the great beast's back in a similar manner. The audacity of the situation was so great that for a moment, Vinye forgot where she actually was, and what she was doing.

 _She was actually about to ride a dragon_.

Her worst fear was right under her lap … and she was using it as a glorified carriage service. It was almost enough to laugh out loud at how absurd this was.

It was _more_ than enough, however, to make her dizzy—but before her vision could go spotty or gray, Grimnir had already remounted his dragon, and Vinye dragged herself back to reality just in time to hear what he was saying.

"All right, Odahviing," Grimnir said. The massive crimson dragon tensed beneath them, and somewhere within her fogged-up mind, Vinye guessed that "Odahviing" must be its name. "We make for the Jeralls, and the Dwarven ruins there. _Amativ! Bo med venneserah!_ "

" _Geh, thuri_ ," Odahviing rumbled, in a voice so deep that Vinye's bones shook to the marrow. " _Keizaal saraan! Huzrah, aarre—mu fen koraav Taazokaan med nunon dovahhe!_ "

"What?" Cosette and Malys traded looks of confusion. Vinye, however, was beginning to feel very apprehensive—and the laugh that Grimnir and Odahviing shared did not help matters in the slightest.

"He says to hold on tight." The Altmer swore that Grimnir was grinning like a lunatic under his mask.

That was the last cogent thought in Vinye's head before Odahviing released a bellowing roar that nearly destroyed her eardrums. Then, without any other preamble, the dragon's wings flapped _once_ —and his spiked bulk was launched upwards into the sky as if by Auriel himself, hurtling due south for the ruins of Rkund.


	20. XIX

XIX

Mistress Malys had never moved so quickly in Her life.

Eastmarch was already far behind them before She could even think to look back, and the Rift below them was merely a blur of brown and green. The vast wings of the dragon Odahviing were hardly moving, but every so often, they would flap once, and Malys would feel Her insides shift violently towards Her spine with the acceleration.

She chanced a look around Her; ahead, vinye was white in the face, and was wrapped hand and foot around one of Odahviing's spines, clutching it for dear life—and screaming all the while. Behind her, cosette looked faintly green, and several of the dragon's scales around her were already streaked with bile.

And grimnir, still perched just behind Odahviing's head, looked as though he was having the time of his life. She couldn't see his face, of course, and the shriek of the wind made it impossible to hear anything he was saying, but it was clear that he had done this before, judging from the aerials Odahviing was pulling off. The dragon would hover on thermals, execute rolls that would send Malys' brain reeling—and grimnir would hold fast to his steed through each one.

As they neared Riften, grimnir must have given some unseen order, because Odahviing suddenly launched himself higher than ever, almost perpendicular with the ground. Then, just as even Malys was beginning to feel cold from the rarified air, the dragon stalled in midair—and dropped like a stone. vinye screamed louder than ever, but it wasn't until later that Malys realized that She had been the one shrieking Her head off that time.

With good reason—the dragon was upside down now, and from Her vantage point, Malys saw Riften above her head, getting closer and closer with each passing second. But at the last possible moment, grimnir and Odahviing leveled out, and sailed over Riften at so low an elevation that Malys swore she'd lost a few hairs to the topmost tower of the city's keep.

Then they were upright once more, and flying nearly level with a mountain that cast its shadow on the south end of town. Malys barely caught the remains of an old Nordic fortress on the summit before Odahviing leveled out. They crossed a large valley, and Malys thought She could see the same exact spot where the mages had scaled the cliffs on the opposite side—near Lost Tongue Overlook. She thought of Tolfdir, and Her heart sank as she remembered Her words with the kind old Nord.

Odahviing was descending now, this time for good—Malys could see the familiar ruins of Rkund in front of them. The crimson dragon's wings flapped once, and the vampire felt a _crunch_ as the beast's claws touched down upon the carved stone. The impact was enough to send Her tumbling to the ground, but She did not care—She could have kissed the stone, it felt so good to feel it beneath Her once again.

Behind Her, vinye and cosette dismounted the dragon—or at least, cosette did. The high elf collapsed in a heap, breathing heavily. "Never again," she gasped; her voice was hoarse from all her screaming. She took several deep breaths as cosette continued to be sick on the pavilion. "We are _never_ … doing that again … that was … _awful_ … "

Arch-Mage grimnir slid from Odahviing's neck, and stroked the dragon's horns. " _Saraan pah_ ," he instructed him. " _Meyz nu vahlok._ " The dragon nodded once, and took off once more, shrinking to a blurry point in the sky.

It took several minutes to recover from their flight, and Malys was thankful that grimnir allowed them this. With any luck, they had arrived here much quicker than Solyn had expected them—he would be caught off guard, perhaps so much so that they might actually have a chance at defeating him.

But when grimnir finally ushered them up, and made his way to the front door, he opened the gigantic door—and Malys instinctively knew that Solyn had foresaw even this.

 _Damn_.

A shimmering blue shield blocked their path, distorting the hallways and machinery beyond into blurry shapes of gray and gold. grimnir moved to inspect this shield, and it was only after a few minutes of silence that he finally spoke.

"He's prepared well, this Solyn," he grunted. "I haven't heard of magic like this in at least two eras."

"Two _eras_?" cosette repeated in awe. "So this has to be more than just a simple barrier, then?"

"Mm." The arch-mage shook his head. "A 'barrier' isn't the right way to describe this. Look." He raised his hand towards the doorway, and gathered some ice magic into his hand. Malys saw it rotating in the same manner as Her own ice storm. Sure enough, grimnir's own ice storm radiated from his palm a second later, leaving a growing trail of icy crystals in its wake as the super-chilled clouds entered the ruins.

Suddenly, the clouds vanished. Confounded, Malys tried to figure out where they'd gone, and Her first thought was that the sapphire shield had nullified grimnir's attack. But Her confusion only grew when She noticed that same trail of ice lining the hallways beyond—only to fade less than a second later.

_What in the name of—?_

"It's no barrier," grimnir said definitively; he did not sound happy. "It's a claudication spell."

Malys and cosette traded the same look of puzzlement, but vinye looked aghast. "A claudication spell?" she gasped. "There's no way Solyn could cast something that complex! He'd have to have at least a _hundred_ other wizards with him—each one just as powerful as he is! Only the Dwemer could have the means to cast a spell like that!"

"This wasn't here the first time we were in Rkund, Arch-Mage," Malys spoke up. "Solyn cast this himself, not the Dwemer—and it's already common knowledge that Solyn was alive when the dwarves were, vinye. He probably learned that spell from them."

"Would someone mind telling me what the hell a claudication spell is?" cosette interrupted.

grimnir cleared his throat. "A claudication spell can separate anything inside its boundaries from normal reality," he said. "Think of digging a hole in the ground—except the hole isn't … physically _here_. But what Solyn did here is only the easiest way to accomplish this—there are records of several Dwarven cities throughout Tamriel that were physically removed from both time _and_ space with this spell. Some even suggest that the entrances to those cities lead to the same identical ruin."

The Culler blinked. "None of that answered my question at all," she remarked, and secretly Malys agreed with her—even a summation of this spell had made Her head hurt. "Just tell me what Solyn did _here_."

If he was affronted by cosette's bluntness, grimnir didn't show it. "Solyn has greatly accelerated the flow of time within the ruins of Rkund. Judging by how quickly my ice storm dissipated, I would guess that … several hours have passed in the time I took to finish this sentence."

Malys' heart sank. "And how long has this spell been in effect on our end?" She asked.

Grimnir leaned in closer to the shimmering wall to take a look. "Since last night," he eventually said. "About … _twelve_ hours."

cosette quickly began counting on her fingers; Mistress Malys inwardly braced Herself for bad news, as the Culler's round face seemed to lose more air with each passing second.

"That's almost _five years!_ " cosette finally shouted.

" _Damn_ it." vinye made a fist. "That Chimer thought of everything. He _knew_ we'd try to get here as soon as we could. But that spell just gave him all the time he needed—and then some." The altmer turned to grimnir. "Please tell me you can break through."

The arch-mage grunted. "Well, the fewer people you have on hand to help cast a spell like this, the more holes are left to fill, and the easier it can be breached. It's quite possible Solyn cast this on his own—which, while no small feat, means it's more than likely that the boundary of his claudication spell is nothing more than a very large sphere.

"That said, this won't be easy, and it likely won't be quick," said grimnir. "Breaking through a claudication spell is tricky. It's not unlike popping a bubble with a needle—only we're dealing with a different kind of bubble, and using a different kind of needle."

grimnir looked at the mages, and added darkly, "Which means we need to prepare for a very different _pop_." He took a few steps backwards, and the three mages did the same without a moment's hesitation.

"Let's hope you lot learned enough about wards from old tolfdir—Akatosh rest his soul," he said gruffly, taking the elaborately carved, triple-pronged staff on his back and bringing it to bear. Malys noticed his mask was no longer the rusted iron he'd worn before—it was a smooth and glossy bluish-green. _When had he changed it?_

She, vinye, and cosette each erected a ward, and so too did the arch-mage. Then grimnir hefted his staff in his free hand, and a glowing lance of energy, somewhere between lightning and turquoise fire, erupted from the globe on its tip. Malys sensed something ancient inside the blinding beam of magic as it struck the claudication spell, something thousands of years old, older than Solyn—perhaps even older than time itself. She noted how the beam seemed to be traveling in two directions: away from the staff, and _towards_ it at the same time.

" _TIID!_ " grimnir barked. Suddenly, a bluish-white wave of energy burst from his mouth, and towards the energy field he was assaulting. Shielding Her eyes from the glow, Malys noticed that the blurs beyond the spell seemed to be getting more in focus; within moments, they were beginning to slow down more and more, and She could make out the motion of various pistons and turbines—he'd breached the spell.

"How did you do that?" cosette asked, taking a long look at the staff as grimnir replaced it on his back.

"Very carefully." The three mages waited for more, but the arch-mage did not elaborate. "The spell has been neutralized; none of us appears to be suffering any ill aftereffects. But I don't think I need to tell you that we are entering uncharted territory here. We may very well be facing forces unseen in Tamriel for almost four thousand years—if ever at all. _Be on your guard._ "

The mages nodded, and followed grimnir into Rkund.

* * *

Dagoth Solyn looked up from his latest project. Some sixth sense of his had gone off in a dark corner of his mind, and he immediately sensed that the claudication spell he'd placed had failed, and the normal flow of time had now resumed. That was quicker than he anticipated; he'd been hoping for at least another decade before the spell would be broken. That must have taken a considerable amount of magic, certainly more than any normal mage possessed.

 _Was it the Dragonborn?_ Solyn wondered. It was certainly likely—he'd been hoping to goad him here, and test the power of his creations against such ancient magic—but this magic felt more ancient by far. He wondered if … perhaps it _was_ , he thought. Now he was intrigued; he would definitely have to see this power firsthand.

The Chimer turned around to regard the massive mounds of material heaped before him. A few dozen of his ash creatures were already loading them into his creation, along with a few other odds and ends. And that wasn't even counting what they'd been mining these last five years—mining and refining, purifying and shaping.

He clapped his hands. "Double time, now!" he ordered his ash spawn. "We will be entertaining some guests soon, and no mistake. And I wish to greet them as only a Lord of House Dagoth should."

Several of the ash spawn broke off from the main group, and approached Solyn. They presented him a large number of large blocky shapes, cast from Dwemer metal and hollowed out to his exact specifications. He watched as they pried open the molds with their jagged weapons.

He saw what lay inside them, and he knew that it was good.

Then Solyn turned back to his project, and gazed at the two artifacts that had been forged mere hours ago. The better part of three years had gone into studying the potential of his creations, and another two were devoted to mastering said potential. Finally, by his reckoning, over a month had passed since the forging process had begun. But at long last, they were here, cooling before his very eyes.

He saw them, and knew they were good.

* * *

It was strange, Vinye thought, to be inside Rkund again; the first time, they had entered it at the behest of a benefactor of the College. Now, however, they were trying to destroy that benefactor.

Time was of the essence, and the four mages wasted no time in maneuvering through the winding halls of the citadel, Grimnir in the lead. Vinye remembered just in time to watch where she stepped this time around; the Altmer even saw the same floor trap that Malys had saved her from. It had not been altered or disabled, and was therefore just as deadly to any one of them.

Before long, they reached the great hall. The tents of the miners were still there, but something was wrong. There were no lights from campfires, flickering off the walls and rafters of the immense chamber. And the entire hall seemed eerily silent; only the sounds of arcane machinery filled their ears …

" _Laas … yah nir,_ " Grimnir muttered under his breath. A few seconds later, he threw out his hand, and the mages stopped behind him. "We're not alone here," he grunted.

"How can you be sure?" Cosette scanned the expanse with a hand over her eyes, but found nothing.

"That was a detection spell you heard me cast," said Grimnir. "Whatever's out there, I counted about a dozen of them. And unless you three know any invisibility spells, they're spread far enough apart where we can't sneak by."

Vinye immediately tensed. "Automatons?" she asked—though deep in her mind, she already knew the answer.

Grimnir shook his head. "No," replied the Arch-Mage. "Size of a man—but too slow to _be_ a man … "

Malys pointed further down. "The lift we took is at the far end of the hall," she said. "We'll make a run for it—hopefully we won't have to deal with them all."

"I don't care," growled Cosette. Her swords were already in her hands. "I've got some _serious_ anger issues to work out before we're done here."

Grimnir started. "Wait, no!"

But Cosette had already made her decision. The Breton launched forward from her position with a war cry that all of Rkund had to have heard. Vinye cursed under her breath, and charged.

Suddenly, explosions rocked the great hall, and several tents burst into flames. A smoky haze filled the chamber within seconds, restricting the mages' breathing, and their senses as well. Several of Solyn's hated ash spawn rose from the wrecks of the tents; Grimnir had blown their opportunity for an ambush, but the atmosphere of the hall had now changed in more ways than one.

It was as though Mehrunes Dagon's Deadlands had suddenly merged with this little slice of Tamriel. The air was hot and foul with the stench of smoke and burning flesh, and the rising flames reduced the scenery around them to a hellish orange-red glow. Shadows danced across the bodies of the dozen ash spawn as they marched towards them, spell and sword in hand, streamlining their facial features, and transforming them from merely unsettling to outright terrifying.

But Vinye did not see the Deadlands; indeed, she saw something much worse … the trees of Valenwood, and the city of Falinesti, all erupting in gouts of mage-fire. She sniffed the hated smell of elves being roasted alive, eaten alive, and the pops and sizzles of a child prodigy's lethal lightning incinerating the grisly remains …

 _No_ , she thought, screwing her eyes shut, trying to block out the memories. _Not now—I can't … not now …_

A rush of wind dispelled her thoughts, followed by another screech from Cosette. The mad Culler was a mage on a mission, Vinye thought—and she was not about to let a handful of these monsters get in her way. Her Forsworn blades scythed this way and that, twin tornadoes of ivory and stone that ripped into the rough, ashy skin of the constructs that opposed her.

Before the elf could bring her thoughts back to Mundus, the Breton had already dispatched half of the ash spawn, their remains swirling in the wake of her onslaught, and smearing her sweat-matted face. For only a split second, Vinye caught a glimpse of that face, of eyes that seemed to glow with dragonfire.

If it wasn't so small and round, she thought, it might have belonged to a Dremora.

The other half of the ash spawn had been wise enough to keep their distance from the raging Cosette, and eschewed their jagged blades in place of fiery bolts from their palms. The chamber soon lit up with their mage-fire—shorter-lived than the spellwork of the masters of Cyrodiil, but more intense and explosive for it—and Cosette, for all her swordsmanship, was forced on the defensive as quickly as she'd taken the offensive. She ducked and wove the bolts like a fox evading a hunter's arrow, and more than once one of the infernal missiles exploded close enough to singe her robes.

But it soon became apparent to Vinye that all the rage in the world would not sustain Cosette for very long; she was moving slower, and her movements were becoming more predictable. The ash spawn, on the other hand, were not bound by the rules of the living; they continued to sling firebolts at the Breton.

"Down!"

Grimnir's command echoed throughout the great hall, even in the din of battle, and Cosette flung herself to the floor without apparently realizing who had told her to do so. Then Grimnir raised his staff again, aiming it right at the ash spawn.

For the second time today, aquamarine light blasted from the staff, and Vinye felt the hairs on her neck rise from the sheer intensity of the ancient magic within it. She had never encountered magic like this before, not even during her days with the Guild of Alinor. The ash spawn did not have a chance; Grimnir swung his staff in three wide, full circles, as if he was wielding an immensely long sword. The blade of magicka sliced through the monsters, and they evaporated in a matter of seconds.

A sudden hush descended upon the ruins as Grimnir replaced his staff onto the back of his robes, and the remains of a dozen ash spawn drifted lazily in the hall. The Arch-Mage's mask was unmoving as he strode toward Cosette.

"How did you do that?" He did not sound happy.

Cosette looked like she had wanted to ask that very same question. She scowled, but said nothing.

"The ash spawn that attacked the College were not only immune to conventional destruction magic," Grimnir went on. "The heat from their bodies was enough to melt tempered steel blades. Your swords are—as far as I can tell—bits of ivory and stone, lashed crudely on wood. Why, then, are they still intact?"

Vinye was taken aback at this. _The ash spawn can do that, too?_ But how, then, had Kinsbane survived when she had flung it into the face of the monster that had attacked them outside the Forge? She could only assume that moonstone was substantially tougher than the tempered blades Grimnir had mentioned—either that, or that monster had not been under Solyn's control, and its full power had not been unleashed.

"The Forsworn use a special hedge-magic that only they know," Cosette answered him. "They put it on their weapons and armor. These 'bits of ivory and stone'"—she fingered the pommels of her twin swords—"are more durable than anything the Thalmor _or_ the Stormcloaks can produce." She looked at the Arch-Mage with a raised eyebrow. "I'd think you would at least know something about this if you were the most powerful mage in Skyrim."

Grimnir's mask did not move. "Oh, I do," he replied. "I also know that after the breakout at Cidhna Mine some years ago, Urag and I restricted all knowledge about Forsworn hedge-magic to a need-to-know basis, and even then to the senior scholars. That your blades can withstand the heat of an ash spawn's insides isn't what surprises me—it's that you seem to know quite a bit about one of the … _grayer_ fields of study taught by the College, hmm?"

Cosette's round face was getting whiter with every word he spoke. She gulped as the mask peered in closer to her, and Vinye felt a pang of sympathy: Grimnir had thoroughly sandbagged the Breton; she might as well have admitted to her involvement with the Forsworn—and their breakout in Cidhna Mine. Worse still, Cosette was part of a faction that practiced outright xenocidal behavior, but they were especially hateful of Nords. As Grimnir was a Nordic hero, Vinye suspected the Breton thought of him as highly as she had the late Ulfric Stormcloak.

That was two of them that Grimnir had read like books. Vinye had been first; her secret collaboration with Septimus had been anything but secret to the Dragonborn's eye. That her connection to the Thalmor yet remained in the dark offered no consolation. And now Cosette had been laid bare before the dangerously shrewd Arch-Mage.

She looked at Malys, now; the Dunmer's burning eyes were not straying an inch from Grimnir. Vinye knew the two elves were thinking the same thing—he hadn't expressed his knowledge that Malys was a vampire, but he had the edge in experience. It was more than likely he'd run into a few vampire covens in his day.

"I told you I lived in Markarth when I was younger," said the Breton, recovering a little bit of her composure, and some sarcastic wit to go along with the nonchalant pose she currently struck. "You've been to Nchuand-Zel. We both know the Forsworn are a surprisingly popular topic of conversation over there."

Grimnir showed no sign of being convinced by Cosette's answer—but neither did he press the issue further. He took several steps towards the Breton.

WHACK.

Vinye had chosen that moment to blink, and therefore missed a good deal of what happened next: one moment, Grimnir had raised his staff. The next moment, it had swung faster than a bolt of lightning, and Cosette was sprawled on the floor before his robes, clutching her stomach and cursing furiously.

" _Pahlok!_ " Grimnir bellowed under his mask. "I told you we would be facing an enemy unseen in this world for thousands of years." His voice was terrible, and Vinye even thought she saw a few sparks dance over his fingers. "If you _ever_ rush blindly into such danger like that again, Miss Ionsaithe, I will _not_ be rescuing you next time!"

Cosette had gotten to her feet, still holding a hand to her chest and coughing as she cast a healing spell over where Grimnir had hit her. The Breton said nothing, but stared back at Grimnir defiantly as the Arch-Mage continued on his way. The iridescent mask did not even look in her direction.

"Some Nordic hero he turned out to be," spat Cosette as Vinye and Malys caught up with her. "Where does he get off, striking one of his own like that?"

Vinye remembered that day when she'd seen the Dragonborn bedridden, nearly delirious from a combination of potions and pain. "I don't think he's a hero," she said softly. "I'm not even sure _he_ thinks he's a hero."

"Maybe he fancies himself a father," Malys remarked. "Someone like him probably never had a chance to settle down, raise a family. Maybe he never will."

"Are all you vampires so damned depressing?" huffed Cosette as she patted dust off her robes. "And where did that come from, anyway?"

"When a father strikes his child, it's usually because they did something wrong," mused the Dunmer. "That's probably what he thinks of the three of us—maybe even of the whole College. It's the family he could never have."

 _Family_. The word had a particularly deep impact on Vinye as she realized that none of the three mages had any family of their own anymore. Taron Dreth had murdered Cosette's mother and father. Whatever family Malys had had was gone, lost in the cataclysm of Vvardenfell. And Vinye's own parents … Her father had died a meaningless death for a meaningless cause—but the Altmer knew at least that her mother was still alive, somewhere out there, perhaps still in some cushy office in Alinor overlooking the Abacean.

The thought of it made her teeth clench. She would never see her again.

And if Vinye was honest, she did not wish to.

Malys' words had cast a pall over the entire group, and no one spoke again until they had caught up with Grimnir. The great hall of Rkund, full with the sounds of battle not minutes ago, was almost eerily silent once more as they approached the lift that had taken the three mages to the lower sections of Rkund.

Unfortunately, it only took one glance at that lift for them to realize that Solyn had anticipated _this_ , too.

"I don't _believe_ this," Cosette groaned, aiming an angry kick at the house-sized mound of rock, metal, and debris that had broken off from the ceiling, and crushed the elevator beneath it. "That was our only way down there. There's no way we can get to him now!"

"Maybe there is," Malys said. "Didn't Tolfdir and J'zargo go through another way to meet up with us last time?" She looked around, sensing skepticism from everyone present. "It's all we've got," she added with a shrug.

"Then let's get this over with." Cosette had already pointed out another set of double doors off to the left, and a third to their right. She was already heading to the former destination with purpose in her every step. "Malys, you're with me. Vinye, you and the Arch-Mage can go right."

Grimnir whipped his head in the Breton's direction. "What makes you think we are splitting up in here?" he demanded. "None of us will know where we are going now—we will be blind!"

"All three of us went into Dwarven ruins blind— _and_ alone," countered the Culler. Her arms were crossed. "I remember Tolfdir saying even _you_ weren't capable of that," she added with a smirk.

A shadow fell across Grimnir's face, and for a moment, Vinye worried that the two would come to blows once more. Cosette's desire for revenge was making her increasingly unstable, she knew—and Grimnir, while powerful, was still largely an unknown. If these mages were to be enough to fight Solyn, they would have to put differences aside for the time being.

If they didn't, Vinye thought, they might kill each other before the Dwemer do.

Then the shadow lifted, and Vinye noticed that the color of the Arch-Mage's mask had changed—it was black now, like ebony, instead of the greenish-blue from before.

"If even one of us ends up reaching a dead end," Grimnir said, "then we will be wasting too much time doubling back." He heaved a heavy sigh. "But if even one of us finds a way through, then we may yet stand a chance."

He turned to Cosette and Malys. "Two hours," he decided. "You have until then to find your way through. We will not come back for you until then."

Vinye thought Dremora could have soiled their armor for less than the smile spreading over Cosette's face. "Deal."

And not deigning to waste any more time, the Breton turned on her heel and made to head left. Malys watched her go for a very long moment before she turned her burning gaze to Vinye. Both halves of the vampire's face were completely unreadable, and the Altmer did not like it. But eventually, Malys tired of staring, and followed Cosette without a word.

Grimnir huffed as the two mages disappeared from sight. "That Cosette," he said, apparently to no one in particular. "I like her, you know."

That confused Vinye, and she furrowed her brow. "Arch-Mage?"

"Arrogant, headstrong—disregard for authority," the Nord went on, seemingly talking to himself. "Oh yes—it reminds me of when I was younger … more reckless. Maybe 'like' isn't the word for it. No—I _understand_ her. She's a warrior. Proud … to a fault, but _fearless_ … living for nothing more than the chance to unleash _hell_."

But then Grimnir turned on his heel, and made for the doorway off to his right, and he was heard to darkly mutter, "And if we're not careful, that's exactly the type of attitude that's going to get us all killed."

Unsure how to respond to that, Vinye hurried after him, and the golden doors banged shut behind her.

* * *

The path of Cosette and Malys eventually took them to a long corridor, whose end was lost to sight in shadow. Metal gratings either side of the path afforded them a view of the chamber below them: a massive space even larger than the great hall of Rkund.

Cosette could barely hear the vampire trailing in her wake as they navigated the walkway, not for distance between them, but for a sound that seemed to be coming from below them—the clicking, whirring cacophony of hundreds of small mechanical joints.

Immediately, she glanced at Malys; she had apparently read the Breton's mind, and was now crouching prone on the ground so as to avoid being seen. Cosette followed suit, and in so doing, she now had a clear view of what was going on down there, making that awful metallic racket.

It was not hard to spot. Spiders—more of the mechanical spiders than either of them had yet seen in one place. They skittered about the room below them, which they now saw contained a dozen or so smaller rooms inside one bigger chamber. Each of these rooms had several shelves along the walls, packed near to bursting with assorted parts and bits of Dwemer metal, and these were gathered around a single stone table, where rested several unfinished automatons.

"This looks like an animunculory," Malys whispered to her, almost inaudible over the noise. "Several ruins in Morrowind had chambers like these. This was where the dwarves would build their automatons—arm them, even repair them—everything from spiders to centurions."

Cosette took one look at all the spiders downstairs, and grimaced as she noticed several ash spawn ambling around the place, appearing to supervise the whole operation. Then a thought came to her. "Maybe if we can cripple all this," she said, "we can slow Solyn down—he can't take over the world all on his own."

Malys seemed to consider this, and nodded. But she had just noticed something else, and now it was her turn to grimace as she bade Cosette look closer at the scene below them. The Breton peered at all the spiders, and felt her jaw drop as she saw a horribly familiar ice-blue color gracing several parts of each and every _animunculus_.

"He's enhancing the automatons with Aetherium?" Cosette mouthed back to Malys.

The vampire looked grim, and she nodded back. Both women knew that this bode very ill for them indeed—they knew now that they absolutely had to destroy whatever was down there to have any hope of crippling Solyn. But there were too many spiders for them to take on—and with that Aetherium, Old Gods only knew what they were capable of now.

There had to be another way, and Cosette decided to press on through the corridor.

Slowly, she and Malys crept along the stone floor on all fours, not daring to make a sound. Cosette was experienced in this scenario—she had been taught from her youth that stealth and discretion was key to the work of a Forsworn Culler. Malys, wearing the black robes Cosette assumed she'd found in whatever ruin she had recover Wraithguard from, was like a moving shadow, and kept to the corners—only her glowing eyes betrayed any light at all as she stalked behind Cosette.

Then, without warning, everything went south.

Cosette had no idea if one of them had blundered into a pressure plate, or if sheer lack of luck was to blame. But regardless of cause, a jet of steam had suddenly erupted from above—and caught her right in the face.

" _Yackpth!_ " Ignoring all sense of concealment and silence, the Breton yelped as the superhot mist scalded her skin. Only then did her brain process what she had just done, and Cosette clapped her hands to her mouth as if that would silence the echoes of the shout she had been too late to suppress.

A second of total silence passed. The mechanical noises had stopped as well—and Cosette knew the horde of spiders below would have been very defective indeed to not sense their presence here.

Sure enough, one second later, the gratings either side of them slid upwards into the ceiling, exposing the platform to the whole of the animunculory outside—and revealing dozens upon dozens of the mechanical spiders.

And the trio of ash spawn with them.

Each spider, as the two mages had seen, had been enhanced with Aetherium; the wonder mineral had been plated over the pincers of their arms, as well as the tips of their six legs. Plated, too, were the gyros that crowned each spider's abdomen, and even the gem that was fixed inside that mechanism. These gems crackled and sparked with electricity—electricity that no doubt was meant for them.

Cosette and Malys traded glances for a few more dangerous moments. Neither of them wagered they looked happier than the other. Then, reacting naturally—which is to say, throwing all sense of caution out the window—Cosette screamed a half-dozen curses and war cries, and jumped into the sea of enemies below.

The Breton was in her element. Cullers were expected to be _unexpected_ , to slay their targets without them being aware. As the Forsworn evolved, and grew stronger, so would the Cullers, in their efforts to cull the weak, and make the Forsworn stronger still. But Cosette was an Ionsaithe first and foremost—like her family, now long dead after enough bloodshed to fill a keep to its length and breadth, she was an unstoppable force of war.

Her twin Forsworn blades were out before her feet had even hit the ground, and the hedge-magic imbued within them speared one spider apiece before they could properly process these new arrivals. From there, Cosette was a whirlwind of devastation, and her vision began to swim and melt into the familiar blur of adrenaline-fueled battle. Mechanical parts scattered every which way as the swords tore into the _animunculi_ , and foul-smelling oil spattered her robes and face as she fought her way to the ash spawn in the middle.

But Malys was not to be outdone. Cosette was so absorbed in her own fight that she was hardly paying any attention to the hybrid vampire, whose hands were beginning to brim with poisonous red magic as she, too, leapt down into the fray.

That magic now erupted from her fingers like the foul clutches of Molag Bal himself. Two of the ash spawn were closer to her; they stood no chance against the crimson energy. The spiders fared little better—the ruby-red tendrils seeped into the inner workings with impunity, corroding the Dwarven metal—if only slightly—and leeching the constructs of the souls that powered them.

But the spiders were not defenseless—indeed, the duo soon discovered that Solyn's upgrades had not just been cosmetic. Even as their reckless assault had begun, sparks had begun to dance over their surfaces, spreading from the Aetherium gem affixed to their crowns. Within moments, the entire horde of automata buzzed and snapped with lightning that would not be out of place on an adept mage's elemental cloak spell—and no doubt functioned the same way. And that wasn't all.

Some of that lightning flowed back to the gem on the nearest spider to Cosette, and she barely leapt away from the remains of the final ash spawn that she had just destroyed. No sooner had she fled than a thunderbolt blasted from the turquoise-colored jewel; one of her blades was barely grazed by the energy blast. The Forsworn weapon was flung from her grip and clattered against the far wall behind her—next to a set of double doors that Cosette hoped might be their way out of here.

She paid her disarmed sword no heed—a true Forsworn always carried more than one weapon in their hands. Quickly, before any spiders near her could squeeze off more lightning, she sent off a pair of fireballs to her immediate left and right. More scrap metal was hurled into the air from the force of the explosions, and the errant sparks of her missiles ignited some of the oil and disabled yet more of the spiders.

But they were still coming.

Now, Cosette was forced to erect a ward before more lightning bolts could stitch the air between them, and the bolts thudded off her ward—but not without repercussion; the shocks rebounded through her hands with such force that they were numb after merely three blasts. With her hand no longer able to properly maintain the ward, the silvery shield flickered and died in her palm.

The spiders seized their chance. Two more bolts struck home, and Cosette's other blade was blasted out of her hands, landing right on top of its companion. That left both the Culler's hands free to cast spells, and spells she did cast, creating enough magefire to burn a whole company of soldiers, allegiance be damned. For each bolt they cast, she cast a fireball—and ten more spiders would be flung to the far corners of the animunculory.

Then a third bolt struck Malys.

The vampire had been doing almost as well as Cosette up to this point; in addition to the ash spawn, her soul-devouring magic had disabled nearly a third of the automatons in the room—Cosette had disabled slightly more so. Nevertheless, one spider must have escaped her onslaught, and it now fired point-blank at the dark elf's chest.

Time seemed to stand still as the force of the impact lifted Malys clear off her feet. The Dunmer hit the wall with a thud, and slumped down on the other side of the doorway as Cosette's blades and did not move.

"No!" Even as the scream left her throat, Cosette knew she was in trouble—there were still too many spiders for her to take on alone. And a sudden noise from ahead of her told her it was about to get even worse. She looked up, and felt her heart sink—three dwarven spheres had just entered the chamber from an unseen entrance off to her right.

To her lack of surprise, they too had been furnished with Aetherium upgrades: the ridges and hubcaps of their wheels were lined with the mineral, as were their arms, their squarish eyeholes, and even some pieces of their body armor. Each sphere raised a blade with a refined Aetherium edge, and hefted a crossbow loaded with bolts that were similarly tipped with the glowing substance.

Cosette knew she could not stay here—she could not take those down as long as Malys was down for the count. So she decided to exercise the better part of valor, right as the spheres fired their bolts. Those bolts must have been loaded with some type of enchantment, Cosette decided—no doubt owing to the Aetherium tips—because after each one, she heard an explosion just where her feet had trod, and the force of the impact nearly knocked her off her feet.

Cosette wasted no time in collecting Malys' body and her effects; she hoisted the former over her shoulder, like the vampire was nothing more than a sack of grain, and clutched her twin blades in her other hand. As she moved to open the door, the Breton chanced a look back, and saw the lead sphere lining up for a second volley. There was a hiss, and then a whoosh of air that sounded akin to a thunderclap. A storm of metal parts blew up in the wake of this wall of air, turning the entire room into a deathtrap.

That was the last thing that Cosette remembered seeing before sprinting out of the room like a scamp out of Oblivion, Malys in tow, and hands torn and bleeding from clutching her ivory-pointed blades so tightly. She closed the door, but not quickly enough; just before the door banged shut, the lead sphere's attack caught her, and Cosette Ionsaithe felt herself being swept off the ground as if by a hurricane, and into total blackness …

* * *

Vinye and Grimnir had no less difficult of a time themselves. Their route had taken them to the edge of a massive pit that stretched down, down, down into dizzying depths. Lengths of chain as thick as Vinye's breast stretched into the yawning chasm, carrying giant buckets the size of carriages, each one filled to the brim with ore and rock. The heat was incredible—Vinye guessed that whatever lay at the bottom of this hole was not unlike the vast furnace and the molten lake inside the Aetherium Forge.

The path was rough and rocky, not at all like the smooth-cut stone within the great hall, but here and there cobblestones were scattered along the path as it wound along the chasm. And to make matters worse, the two mages were not traversing this alone—or, for that matter, without retaliation. How the dwarven spheres currently blocking their path could maintain their balance on such precarious ground—while simultaneously fighting the two mages—was beyond Vinye; it was a testament to the engineering and the arcane genius of the Dwemer.

Unfortunately, she did not feel like appreciating it now.

One Aetherium-enhanced sphere went down to her lightning, finally, and the Altmer scattered the remains into the abyss with a growl. The other two spheres, meanwhile, raised their left arms, and Vinye instinctively created a ward to protect against whatever was coming. But she need not have worried: Grimnir—black mask and all—had charged forward with a roar, and whether because of this or some other sensory ability they possessed, something in the mechanized minds of the _animunculi_ now treated him as a higher-priority target than Vinye.

" _FUS!_ " bellowed the Arch-Mage. There was an explosion of sapphire-colored flame, and the spheres were knocked several feet away from Grimnir.

That was all he needed. In a graceful movement that Vinye would never have expected from her own race—never mind a Nord—the Arch-Mage was suddenly between both _animunculi_ , with his ancient staff in his hands. That staff spun around his grip in a wide arc like he was wielding a blade—and before Vinye could blink, the lance of magicka sliced through the two automatons like they were nothing more than parchment. The sheer amount of power flowing from the staff overwhelmed the spheres, reducing them to piles of ash within seconds.

Vinye was awestruck. "What manner of staff is that?" she breathed. "Who did you have to kill for something like that?"

Grimnir slid his hand in front of his hidden face; when he removed it, the mask was an iridescent bluish-green instead of the ebony face from before—a rare form of moonstone, unless Vinye was horribly mistaken.

"The dragon priest who wore this mask," Grimnir replied, "along with several Thalmor whose ambitions got too big for their brains."

That threw Vinye for a loop. "What were the Thalmor doing in Winterhold?"

"It was before your time—and mine, I suppose," said the Nord with a huff. "It's a rather long story, and I don't know if this is the best time to tell it all. There could be more automatons coming any minute now."

And so they continued on their way down—but Vinye had not liked how Grimnir had said "before your time." Was that merely her being paranoid, or had the Dragonborn found out about the massacre in Falinesti somehow? She stared at the angular face; it was hard to decide if she preferred Grimnir wearing his dragon priest masks or not. The unmoving faces of the masks were more than a little unsettling to her, but Vinye had also seen the horror that lay beneath. She had a strange suspicion that Grimnir's scarred face and single blue eye could stare right into her mind.

"Look at that," Grimnir suddenly pointed out to Vinye. She followed his finger to the far wall, and saw several tunnels branching off into the unknown, like the caverns of an anthill. Vinye thought she could hear several explosions coming from deep within those tunnels.

"That's not natural," remarked the Arch-Mage. "Those were dug up—recently, too. I'd say Solyn is looking to expand his operations in Rkund."

"What exactly is this place?" Vinye wondered out loud. "My guess is that there's some kind of foundry below us, producing all that molten slag." She looked at the gigantic containers, still bound to their immense chains. "He's mining here, making more of that Dwemer metal," she guessed. "The material for that goes down below, to be forged into whatever he wants."

"It's not just the metal," Grimnir nodded, pointing at a bucket that was just rising up to meet them; Vinye was stunned to see a thick bluish-green liquid within it—it could only be molten Aetherium. "You saw those spheres. He's found more of that stuff, and no mistake. I'd like to know where he found so much Aetherium, though—and more to the point, _how_ he found it. What's wrong?"

For Vinye had held up a hand to silence the Arch-Mage; there was a new sound that had just emerged amidst all the creaking of chains: a whirling, swishing sound—like a dozen of those dreaded thresher blades. It was coming from … below them?

 _Oh no_.

"Wasps," she gasped in realization. Without even thinking, she took Grimnir by the arm and dashed off. "We've got to get out of here!"

"What wasps?" protested the Arch-Mage, trying to keep step behind her. "What are you talk—?"

Only at the last possible moment did Grimnir duck the lightning bolt that had apparently come from out of nowhere. He and Vinye turned to see three dwarven wasps rising up from the depths. Vinye felt her heart sink—even these had been given a healthy augmentation of Aetherium. The spinning blades that made up their wings were a whirling blur of blue and green, and a layer of the substance covered its back like armor from its head to its soul gem "stinger."

That soul gem, Vinye noticed, was a lot bigger than the gems she had seen on the wasps from before—the ones that could masquerade as light fixtures. Rather than a chip of some pinkish mineral, this appeared to be a whole crystal, ice-blue in color. It was a greater soul gem, Vinye realized, possibly even a grand soul gem. That could only mean trouble: in terms of enchanting, grand and greater souls offered more of a "charge" than lesser and petty souls.

The lead wasp now aimed its stinger right at them, and Vinye and Grimnir both erected a ward at the same moment as a shower of more lightning bombarded the sliver of a cliff on which they now stood. And to make matters worse, another swarm of wasps, just as big as the first one, swooped down from above to join their mechanical companions.

Now there were six wasps—and six stingers blasting lightning at them.

Vinye knew the withering assault would prevail over them eventually—and so she made a decision. "Cover me!" she yelled at Grimnir. Quickly downing a potion for her magic, she murmured an incantation, and slammed a hand on the rough rock wall behind her. There was a burst of violet flame, and a storm atronach burst forth, almost as if from the cliff face itself.

"Excellent!" Grimnir called out to her, and despite the heat of battle, Vinye felt a brief surge of pride at the compliment. "That'll soak up all their attacks—no amount of lightning can even touch a storm atronach!"

Two of the wasps were destroyed by Vinye's summons before Grimnir had even finished his sentence, their inner workings flying every which way before plummeting into the abyss with the rest of their remains. Vinye and Grimnir disabled a third with one blast of lightning each. The attacks hit the spider in both rotors, causing it to lose altitude rapidly; the wasp was lost from sight within seconds.

At that point, something shifted in the wasps' stance. The stingers rotated once with a clanking noise, and hefted them again. When they fired their next salvo, it was not three bolts of lightning, as Vinye had expected—but rather lightning, ice _and_ fire magic, a continuous stream of each from one spider.

 _Damn it_ , Vinye thought with a growl. She overcharged her next attack deliberately, and fired at the closest wasp. Something screeched within the casing on impact, and the animunculus blew apart with a _bang_. Unfortunately, the next _bang_ would be much less welcome; the torrent of fire and ice had proved too much for Vinye's atronach, and it quickly leapt off the edge at the wasps, perhaps sensing it was not much longer for Mundus. When it finally blew apart, the wasps were sent flying off-balance for several seconds, but they were not destroyed—or even disabled.

Vinye swore again at this.

" _GOL!_ " Grimnir suddenly roared. A burst of golden haze rippled forth from the mouth of his mask, striking one wasp and barely missing the other. To Vinye's amazement—and the other wasp's as well—the automaton plummeted like a stone into the bottomless pit. The other wasp chased after its companion, but it did not get very far; one final blast from Grimnir's staff obliterated it completely.

Vinye stared at the abyss. "What did you do?" she asked. "What kind of Shout was that?"

Grimnir patted his robes, and straightened his multihued mask. "It's a bit hard to explain to someone who doesn't yet know the Way of the Voice," he said. "When you Shout, you force the world around you—whether it's just a single man, or a crowd … or, yes, even the whole of Mundus—to _know_ what you are shouting. You can make its essence become reality by speaking the _Rotmulaag_ associated with it—the Word of Power, as the dragons call it. That's how they breathe fire—the dragons need only speak the _Rotmulaag_ that means 'fire'— _yol_ —and fire appears.

"What you heard me Shout was _gol_ , the dragons' word for 'earth,'" Grimnir went on. "You could say that I forced that automaton to know 'earth.' As a flying creature, the concept of 'earth' must surely have been anathema to its masters' design. It became confused, lost. Were it alive, I've no doubt that trying to comprehend that Shout would have driven it mad, and it would likely try to kill itself because of the insanity."

Vinye wasn't too sure she understood any of that. The Altmer made a mental note to look over every scrap of information that Urag and his Arcaneum had on the Voice—assuming she made it out of Rkund alive.

Grimnir, meanwhile, was not continuing downward; he was staying right where he was, apparently very deep in thought. "I don't suppose you have any idea where we are?" he asked.

Vinye thought for a moment, and realized she did not. They were well and truly lost. However … Vinye knew it wouldn't hurt to check. There were spells designed for this exact purpose, and even the lowliest novices of magic could learn to cast them. She closed her eyes, and began to concentrate.

In her mind's eye, she willed the image of the Reliquary to come forth from the depths of her thoughts: the three plinths, bearing the bas-reliefs of Kagrenac's Tools; the circular platform, the stifling heat that rose from it—

A thin tendril of blue mist extended from her, winding along the path ahead until it was lost to sight. But the clairvoyance spell was wavering; Vinye's thoughts were being disturbed. In her haste to cast the spell and get her bearings, Vinye had committed a big mistake. She had dove into her memories too quickly … too deeply.

She was a child again, now, tiny among the enormous trees of Valenwood even as they burned to ashes from the onslaught of mage-fire … People were screaming; men, women, and children were cut down and burned alive in the street, and faceless, soulless soldiers were pushed back by the few who tried to resist … Sickening sounds of teeth upon flesh and bone rent the air—

 _Stop_ , sniffled a voice in the elf's mind; she knew it to be her own, the innocent youngling she had been before her life had changed. _Please stop …_

Faces from the past and present flitted in front of her vision; her mother and father, members of the Synod, and the College of Whispers as well—the one remaining rational part of her brain dared not label those swindlers as "colleagues." Then there was Tolfdir, his wrinkled face kindly and reassuring, needlessly slaughtered in senseless retaliation; the hated golden visage of Dagoth Solyn; Taron Dreth, his face forever frozen in a ghastly leer by the Chimer's deadly magic—

And then—just as the spell would have faded to nothing—the round, tattooed face of Cosette Ionsaithe burst through it all, snarling like a rabid dog. Her eyes burned like lava—and suddenly, Vinye felt the clairvoyance spell becoming stronger once more.

That was it, she realized—that was what she needed to do. _Don't worry about the Reliquary, and don't worry about anything else. Focus on them … on Cosette, on Malys!_ With newfound conviction, Vinye allowed the faces of her compatriots—her _friends_ —to take the foremost spot in her mind. She felt the flames of Cosette's fury, burning since the treachery of Taron Dreth. She felt the coldness of the grave as the waxy, split face and burning eyes of Malys Aryon swam in her vision. Her skin boiled and froze at the same time as the spell sought out her targets.

And with one final effort of will, she finally felt their presence within Rkund! Both were faint—whether from distance or injury, Vinye could not tell. But for the moment, both were still alive. Now it was only a matter of following the trail.

"Come on!" Vinye called out to the Arch-Mage—there was no time to waste. "I think I know where to go!"

Grimnir followed behind her—Vinye barely noticed that his mask had now turned a bright green, almost like Alinor glass. She kept on casting her clairvoyance spell, maintaining the misty path ahead. Down, down, down they went—until, just when Vinye thought the path would take them to the very core of Mundus itself, the path took a hard left turn, and directed them into one of the tunnels that Grimnir had pointed out.

There was no light in this space, except from the pit behind them, and even the mage-light that Grimnir conjured with a snap of his fingers did little to pierce the gloom. " _Laas … yah nir_ ," he muttered again.

And then, without warning, he brandished his staff and sent yet another lance of blue-green magicka down the tunnel. There was a screech of metal on metal, followed by a massive explosion that shook the passageway. Vinye, fearing a cave-in, moved as if to flee the confined space, only to be rebuffed by Grimnir's stocky arm.

"No need to flee," the bright green mask said reassuringly. "That detection spell saved both our skins. There were several _animunculi_ lying in wait further down. Spiders, from what I can tell by the remains," he added, "and … something else, too. Something bigger. Not a centurion—this tunnel's too small. But it was too big to be a sphere."

"What is it, then?" Vinye asked, feeling rather apprehensive about this unseen enemy.

Grimnir shrugged. "Whatever it was, I'd surmise it was the one that dug this tunnel," he said, "and all the others here too, I suspect." He turned back to the elf. "You're sure that clairvoyance spell sent you down this direction?"

Vinye nodded. "Why do you ask?"

Grimnir was holding up a hand to the eyeholes of his mask, and didn't sound too pleased. He fired off a second orb of bright white light, which traveled the distance of the tunnel, illuminating the rock walls as it passed by. Dimmer and dimmer it grew as it moved further away from the pair—

—until, quite suddenly, it stopped.

Vinye felt a sinking feeling in her breast. _Solid rock_.

" … Because it looks like we'll have to do some digging of our own," Grimnir sighed, confirming her worst fears as he hefted his ancient staff yet again. "This isn't going to be easy, and it isn't going to be quick, Vinye," he told her. "I have to concentrate completely on what I'm about to do here, else I could end up collapsing this whole entire tunnel. I need you to get behind me and make sure that those infernal machines don't try to trap us in here."

Vinye looked from the staff to the end of the tunnel; the mage-light had faded, and all beyond was inky blackness once more. "Are you sure you can accomplish all this with just that one staff?" she asked, somewhat skeptical; Grimnir's credibility as the Dragonborn could only stretch so far. The ornately carved staff certainly looked old, yes, and possessed a strange and ancient magic indeed. And yet …

And yet Grimnir was laughing. "You don't know what this is, do you?" he chuckled, as if he and Vinye were seated in some city tavern, discussing the matter over drinks. The Altmer shook her head.

Grimnir cleared his throat, roared a battle cry, and let fly at the end of the tunnel. The burst of magicka that poured forth from the glowing round tip was different this time; it was no longer a thin, precise lance, but a wide cone of burning energy that bored into the rock wall like some giant drill. The noise was deafening.

"My first day with the College," Grimnir called over the din, "led me to the ruins of Saarthal. We found something inside what little remained of that ancient city—an artifact of incalculable power. It radiated magicka in a way, shape and form that was unlike anything we had ever seen. Everyone at Winterhold was quick to call it the 'Eye of Magnus,' and by the time we delivered it back to the College, every scholar there was tripping over themselves to get a chance to study this incredible find. Except for one person."

There was a slight rumbling noise, and Grimnir relaxed his hold on the staff only a little. The cone of energy thinned slightly, but was no less intensely gouging at layer after layer of rock, burrowing deeper into the earth.

"A high elf by the name of Ancano—the Aldmeri Dominion's 'liaison to the College of Winterhold,' so he claimed—conspired to claim the power of the Eye for himself," Grimnir went on. "He destabilized the Eye, creating magickal disturbances throughout Winterhold and Skyrim. His meddling killed my predecessor, Savos Aren, along with his Master Wizard, Mirabelle Ervine."

Vinye felt a stab of shock—she recognized one of those names! Ancano was well known in the Isles, and was supposedly a personal favorite of the High Justiciar Celeralmo, whose word was considered both law and religion among all the Thalmor. She managed to conceal any emotion that might have betrayed her recognition, but the question still remained: _What was Ancano doing in Winterhold, of all places?_

"Fortunately, I had been doing my own research into the Eye at the same time as Ancano," said Grimnir. "I learned that there was a _second_ artifact imbued with the same inexhaustible power as the Eye of Magnus—and therefore, the only object that could counter its destructive effects. _This_ is that artifact."

Vinye, her interest piqued, turned back to look at what Grimnir was showing him, and realization hit her like the thick walls of Whiterun as she beheld the staff in his hand. _How did I not notice the connection before?!_

"The Staff of Magnus," she breathed. Vinye had heard more than her fair share of stories about this legendary artifact: how it had been created by the et'Ada Magnus—the god of magic himself, and the architect of all Mundus. The Synod Council in particular had coveted the staff; Vinye had remembered hearing rumors about such a powerful weapon in her time studying there. It had been said that the Staff of Magnus was the only object on Nirn capable of containing his divine power.

"I was able to recover the staff—at no small cost," Grimnir said. "I foiled Ancano's mad plans, and killed him for his trouble. The Eye of Magnus was sealed away by members of the Psijic Order before its effects became irreversible and even more destructive." Vinye did not immediately catch what he said next, owing to the fact that the Arch-Mage had lowered his voice to where he could not be immediately heard over the Staff of Magnus' continued efforts to drill into the rock.

But she thought it almost sounded like, "If only I had known what that bastard was _really_ up to … "

A sudden noise from outside interrupted Vinye's thoughts, and she whirled around to the tunnel entrance to see a small patrol of spider machines—each modified with Aetherium components—scuttling towards her. "We've got company!" she hollered at Grimnir.

The Dragonborn did not even look back at her. "Stay on them!" he bellowed.

A single glimpse at those spiders told Vinye that they were capable of producing lightning like her own; sparks were already flying over their chassis, and the Aetherium gem that crowned each one was brimming with electricity as well. It was highly likely, therefore, that they would be very resistant, if not totally immune, to her attacks.

In spite of the long odds, the Altmer grinned—there was a simple answer to this.

In three short, methodical seconds, her storm atronach filled the tunnel completely, blocking the spiders from reaching Vinye and Grimnir. The spiders opened fire—and with an alarmingly large amount of lightning, Vinye thought; it was just as well she'd summoned that atronach to serve as a shield. But the bolts had no effect on the mass of sentient, electrified rock, and Vinye inwardly cheered.

_My turn._

The atronach brought both of its rough fists together with a booming _crack_. A wave of electricity radiated out from its stone palms, and Vinye was pleased to see that the shockwave completely unseated the spiders, throwing them off balance. It was a shame they had not been knocked out of the tunnel completely—Vinye was now certain the Aetherium might have something to do with their resistance to lightning—but she could take what she could get.

"Stand aside," she commanded the atronach. Her summons obeyed her without question, and the Altmer wasted no time in charging a lightning bolt in one hand. Her first shot disabled the two spiders nearest her; they crumpled to the rocky surface in a heap of parts. Her next bolt sent the third spider flying right out of the tunnel and into the abyss below. If it touched bottom, Vinye never heard it.

She wiped her brow and took the time to drink a potion. It was likely something had seen that last spider fly out of the tunnel, and no doubt reinforcements were on the way—but it would take time to navigate the winding path they'd taken. "How are you doing back there?" Vinye called out to Grimnir.

Another rumbling sound, louder and longer this time, was the initial reply. "I think I might be breaking through here," Grimnir grunted. "I hope we do—I think this staff might be running dry very soon. See if any of those spiders had a soul gem I can use to provide a little more charge—I don't want to be caught with a depleted staff in this situation."

Vinye decided to leave the question of why the potential of an artifact of divine power would be limited by soul gems, of all things, alone for the time being. She and her atronach sifted through the parts, and it wasn't long before the two of them found a pinkish gem the size of a skooma bottle.

"It's not much," Vinye said when she presented this gem to the Dragonborn, "but it ought to be enough for us to break through—"

Vinye heard the dreaded sound of thresher blades getting closer and closer mere moments before a spear of ice blew her atronach apart.

Immediately, she created a ward to shield herself from the blast caused by her summons' swift departure. Without its bulk blocking her from the pit outside, Vinye had no trouble seeing the lone Aetherium-enhanced wasp descending through the air like some mechanized, malevolent vulture.

And Grimnir had still not finished breaking though to whatever lay on the other side.

_She had nowhere to go._

The Dwarven wasp moved like lightning; a fireball blossomed from the soul gem on its "stinger", heading straight for Vinye like a fiery arrow. Quickly, the Altmer erected the strongest ward she could; she felt a sensation like a hot, smothering blanket passing over her body, and she involuntarily stepped backward several paces, but the ward had stopped the worst of the attack.

But the wasp was not done. Vinye had seen these hated automatons use both fire and frost, and now this one sprayed a shower of lightning down the passageway. Thin fingers of plasma arced straight for Vinye as she prepared another ward, but she knew this one would not do any good—

… Or would it?

_Push … and pull._

Inwardly, Vinye grinned. That wasp had made a big mistake by forcing her into a corner like this.

Quickly drinking another potion to restore some of her lost magicka, Vinye altered her stance, twisting her ward hand and arm at the wrist. The edges ward began to flicker, and then to flow inward, pulling the wasp's lightning in with it, and slowly restoring Vinye's reserves even further.

Suddenly, there was a third rumbling noise, followed by a terrible racket directly behind her. Vinye's heart rose as she felt a cool breeze against her back—she didn't need to hear the Arch-Mage's shouts to know that Grimnir had finally broken through!

"Come on!" Grimnir was hollering. "Forget the wasp and let's go!"

Vinye managed to tear her eyes away from the hovering _animunculus_ before sprinting away with Grimnir. But the noise of swirling blades still echoed in her ears—the wasp was pursuing!

She bulled past Grimnir without even knowing that the Dragonborn had stopped, without even knowing that she was out of the ridiculously confining tunnel. A few seconds later, though, her senses had caught up to her, and she turned around to see what the Arch-Mage was doing.

It was not hard to guess. " _Yol … Toor SHUL!_ " thundered the Dragonborn, and a massive blast of fire erupted from the mouth of whatever carved mask he was currently wearing. The flaming missile rocketed down the tunnel—too fast for the wasp to turn tail and fly back the way it had come—the tunnel had proved to be the architect of its final mistake.

There was a massive explosion as automaton met missile, and the hot wind blew through the tunnel exit was all that remained of the Aetherium wasp. But Vinye's relief was short-lived: Grimnir's tunnel was never meant to last for very long; there was no shoring, no heavy wooden beams to reinforce it. And his fireball only made it end sooner.

Rocks fell from the ceiling of the excavation, filling the hole completely in less time than it took to draw breath.

For a full five seconds, Vinye did not breathe. Slowly, she turned to Grimnir, white in the face as a horrible realization sank in, and whispered,

"Do you realize that that was our only method of escape?"

Grimnir apparently had not—though the way he was looking at the now caved-in passage suggested that he might have been entertaining a second thought about what he'd just done.

"Hmm," was his only reply.

That only made Vinye madder. "We're well and truly _trapped_ in here now, thanks to you!" she screamed. "Solyn kept us from going forward into Rkund—and you just kept us from going _back_ into _Skyrim!_ Did you even _think_ about what you were _doing?!_ "

Grimnir did not move a muscle. "Hmm," he said again.

Vinye felt the beginnings of panic begin to set in amidst her rage at the Arch-Mage's blunder. "We'd better hope Cosette and Malys make it through on their end," she hissed at Grimnir—toying at Kinsbane with a finger as she did so. "Because if they don't, then I'm going to—to … "

Vinye had turned her back on Grimnir in the midst of her tirade, and in doing so had gotten a glimpse of where exactly they were right now. For several seconds, her mouth moved soundlessly, though a strangled choking noise escaped her throat every now and then.

And then, in the span of a single moment, her anger at Grimnir had evaporated.

One moment later, Vinye was laughing. She knew where this place was—she recognized the greenish-blue light of this immense, natural cavern. She recognized the giant mushrooms, each one the size of a great oak tree—and most of all, she recognized the same set of Dwarven ruins here that she had once called a church in passing.

_They were much closer to Solyn now than ever._

"I don't believe it," Vinye croaked through the titters and tears that had been caused by the absurdity of it all.

Suddenly her legs were carrying her forward. "Come on!" she called back to Grimnir. "Maybe Cosette and Malys made it through, too. We can wait for them up by—"

Vinye's offer of a resting place died on her lips as yet another rumbling noise began to invade her senses. The Altmer jerked her head upwards so fast that she cricked her neck, so worried was she of another cave-in. But the ceiling of the huge cavern remained undisturbed—whatever it was, it wasn't coming from the cavern.

In fact, thought Vinye, confusion mounting rapidly, these rumbling noises sounded less like the earth trembling … and more like something exploding. And what was more, it seemed to be coming from … right behind them?

Vinye and Grimnir turned in unison to the great golden door that opened into the cave just as a massive BANG forced the doors open, nearly tearing them off their hinges. A plume of black smoke poured into the cave, and both the Altmer and the Dragonborn were coughing within seconds.

Because of this, it was only after several long moments of wheezing and hacking that Vinye felt well enough to open her watering eyes and see just who or what had made that noise.

Then, out of the cloud of thick smoke, stumbled Cosette Ionsaithe.

She was in a bad way: her robes were torn and blackened in a dozen different places, and the Breton sported several shiny burns on the skin Vinye could see. The noise and force of whatever had exploded behind her had also sent the Breton into shock. She tottered forward unsteadily; the way she was walking looked as though at least one leg had been badly injured—but as the smoke cleared, it became clear that Cosette wasn't limping, but was merely trying to haul a loose pile of bloody, oily black rags that looked bigger than she was.

And then Vinye blinked, and saw the scene clearly through untainted eyes, and gasped— _that pile of bloody rags was Malys Aryon_.

"Sorry to … take so long," Cosette mumbled, still clutching the unconscious vampire with one arm. Her eyes looked glassy and unfocused. "Ran into … some old friends. I'm … not so bad … as I was … "

Then, like any reasonable mage who'd just been through hell and back, she fainted face-first onto the cobblestones.


	21. XX

XX

The smell of juniper filled her nostrils. She was walking through the steppes of the Reach; where exactly, she could not tell—there were no redoubts or camps for Cosette to gauge her location. Birds wheeled and called above her, too far away for her to identify them.

Suddenly, a whole flock of them swooped down from on high—now that Cosette could see them clearly, she could tell that they were black birds, whose feathers shone like ebony. _Ravens_ , she thought. They were revered by the Forsworn, and thought to enhance their speed and ferocity in battle. Female Forsworn would often decorate the furs they wore with the skulls and feathers of ravens for this reason.

The swarm of ravens was surrounding her, now; dozens, hundreds, then thousands of the birds closed in on her so that all she could see was a wall of black feathers. The cawing noises they made were melding into one long, droning alarm that assaulted Cosette's ears. She clapped her hands over them, trying to block it out, but the presence of the ravens was overwhelming. She overbalanced, and fell to the ground—

—only it didn't _feel_ like the ground. It was rough—under the sheet of filthy linen, it felt almost like wood—and Cosette dimly realized she was naked. There were bowls and instruments all around her—spoons and tongs and knives, all rusted and crusted with dried blood. Immediately, Cosette knew what this was.

 _It was a ritual altar_.

The shriek of the birds grew louder than ever.

Suddenly, two forms appeared either side of her—they had seemingly melted into being from the forms of the swirling ravens. She heard heavy, labored breathing, and heard the faint click of clawed feet. She knew the sources of those sounds well, and despite their familiarity, the Breton still shuddered in terror.

The hagraven to her left—one of the half-woman, half-avian matriarchs of the Forsworn—extended a curved, grubby claw, though no less sharp for the detritus still clinging to the wicked appendage. Without any resistance—or, surprisingly, any pain—the claw sliced through the flesh of her chest with a flash, ripping it to the bone and causing blood to spill. The claws peeled back the carved flesh, and Cosette could see her ribcage and sternum.

The hagraven to Cosette's right, meanwhile, held a crude stone dagger in one clawed hand—and in the other, a greenish, spiky briar seed. Instantly, she felt her throat seize up in panic—she knew what these hagravens were trying to do!

"Heart of thorn," the two abominations chanted in unison, almost unheard over the cacophony of the ravens. The hagravens with the briar seed positioned it right over Cosette. The dagger flashed once—and Cosette's mouth opened in a silent scream as her sternum was sliced in half, and wrenched from its usual place by the claws of the matriarchs.

"Bones of the wild," they continued to intone, as the dagger now raised itself directly on top of Cosette's exposed, beating heart, "in life, Forsworn … "

The dagger came down once more, its rusted blade singing in the air with a cold finality. Then the world turned white, and Cosette Ionsaithe leaped up with a scream that echoed throughout the cavern.

* * *

It was some time before Cosette's heartbeat had started to slow, and eventually she realized that she had, in fact, been in the midst of a very vivid fever dream, and was not on the ritual table of a hagraven after all.

It was also around this time that the splitting headache set in, along with everything that had happened up to this point. She groaned loudly, attempting to piece it all together. The last thing she remembered was trying to fend off a veritable sea of mechanical spiders and spheres with one hand, while simultaneously having to carry Malys over her shoulder—

_Malys!_

All trace of fatigue gone, Cosette sat bolt upright, searching for the Dunmer vampire. She didn't need much time or effort to look; when she found her, she felt her heart sink.

Malys had been draped across a slab of rock not far from where Cosette was laying down. She was in a bad way; her black robes were torn and singed. Several spots were dark red with blood, especially on her torso, and even the rock that served as her bed was dripping here and there. Malys had lost a lot of blood indeed; for a vampire, Cosette imagined, that must surely a death sentence.

"How are you feeling?" asked a voice, soft and concerned. Cosette turned round to see the black mask of Grimnir looming over her.

"Lousy," she croaked. "How long was I out?"

"Half an hour," replied the Arch-Mage. "Vinye was doing her best to heal you. You must have been through a lot, Miss Ionsaithe."

Cosette peered over Grimnir's shoulder; Vinye was standing just behind him, looking rather pale as her green eyes flitted from Cosette to Malys and back again. She felt a grudging gratitude for the Altmer, and managed a weak smile in return. This seemed to bring a little bit of the color back into Vinye's face, and she sighed in relief.

"There's more," Vinye went on. "Have you noticed where we are?"

As a matter of fact, Cosette had not; she'd been too concerned with Malys after waking up. Gingerly, she got to her feet, and took in more of her surroundings of green, blue and gray.

It only took her a few seconds before she saw the familiar giant mushrooms illuminating the cavern, and Cosette laughed in spite of herself. They were only a stone's throw from the Reliquary now; if Solyn was not here, inside this naturally lit cave, then he was inside that final chamber.

He was so close to them now.

But Cosette was more worried about other things. "What about Malys?" she asked, biting her lip, dreading the reply.

Vinye gazed back at the prone Dunmer before she answered her question. "I don't know what kind of magic she was hit with—definitely some kind of lightning," she said sadly. "But on top of burns to her upper torso, she suffered some internal bleeding as well. Grimnir was able to seal the burns with his magic, and we've been feeding her potions to stop the hemorrhaging the whole time you were out cold."

"But it goes deeper than that," Grimnir added. "We haven't been able to get her to regain consciousness. She's in some kind of 'death state'. It's almost as though her body just … shut itself down so it could be protected from further injury."

Cosette knew very little about medicine—the average Forsworn's proficiency in alchemy extended only to what they used for rituals. Anything more than that fell within the purview of the camp's shaman, or as a last resort, the briarheart or hagraven in charge of the forces there. As Cosette was neither of these, she wasn't able to glean anything from what the two mages were saying, other than "Malys is in bad shape, and we can't help her."

"What can we do, then?" she finally asked. "Don't you have any potions that can wake a person up? Magic, even?"

"Magic won't help her," said Grimnir bluntly. "And potions can only get you so far. Miss Vinye and I have been talking, and we've decided there's only one thing we can do. We wanted to wait until you were awake before we discussed this plan with you, Miss Ionsaithe."

Before an alarmed Cosette could ask Vinye what was going on, Grimnir's hand glowed with purple flame. He reached into this flame, and yanked out a flaming, ethereal blade that looked not unlike the Daedric swords Borgakh had carried with her— _a bound sword_ , she recognized.

"We'll have to perform a transfusion," Grimnir told them, using his other hand to produce a bottle from within his robes. "If either of you wants to volunteer, I suggest you speak up—I don't know how much more time Miss Malys might have."

It didn't take long for the Culler to put two and two together, and she stepped back as if she'd nearly trod on a snake. _He wants to use our blood?!_

Cosette was reluctant for a number of reasons. Every Forsworn patrol had at least one person who was a skilled healer—not just with restoration magic, but with alchemy as well. Both involved the necessity of knowing the human body inside and out, and what do to with it in the case of injury. If the skin around a wound was dirty, clean it up before healing it. If the blood was foul, get it out before starting the healing.

"Foul blood" was the reason why Cosette was so worried. Malys, vampirism or otherwise, was still a Dunmer. Who knew what would happen if her blood started mingling with Malys' own?

And then she kicked herself mentally for forgetting—of course Malys was a vampire; she could handle any kind of blood that she ingested! She'd disposed of that Redguard working for Taron Dreth at the Forge, and drank his blood in the process. And even before that, she'd killed that Forsworn at Arkngthamz—another Breton—and drank her blood as well?

Cosette's knowledge of medicine was scarce, but she knew that transfusions needed donations from a person with a blood type similar to or very nearly that of their own. An argument could be made that they didn't have the right equipment, or enough time to carry out a properly done procedure—but Cosette was sure that Grimnir knew all this already. _So why bring up the question?_

"How much blood are we talking about here?" she ventured.

"The less time we spend deciding," Grimnir said bluntly, "the less blood she'll need."

Cosette grimaced. _Point taken_. "Then let me do it."

The words tumbled out of her mouth before Cosette even knew what she was saying, and by the time the Breton had thought to bite her tongue, Grimnir and Vinye were already exchanging glances, leaving the Breton to stammer out some excuse for what she had just said.

"L-look," she began. "I was always one of those people who's been better off working alone. That way, I wouldn't have had to deal with the possibility of having to care about anyone instead of myself." She exhaled, trying to regain her composure. "I'm about to swallow my pride here, but I'm not that kind of person anymore. I can admit that the _old_ me would have left Malys behind right now. But that's not who I am _now_."

In her mind's eye, she saw images of Madanach, still sitting in his cell with quill and parchment, now hidden deep within the heart of the Reach. Then she saw Orchendor—or rather, the Bosmer's headless body, bobbing and blazing within the molten ocean of Peryite's Pits as the former Shepherd was tortured for his crimes against the Ionsaithe clan and many other innocent people. Then came Katria and Taron Dreth, reunited with one another in death—if only to the displeasure of them both.

And then, lastly, the tattooed faces and red hair of her mother and father surged forth from the storm of memory and thought. The exposed bones of their spines gleamed unnaturally white, while blood and viscera dripped from the flesh of the severed neck. The eyes of both Bretons were not wide open in pain and horror, but were almost closed, as if in welcome of their fate—acceptance that even in suffering such an ignominious death, they had served the Forsworn well.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Cosette," Vinye suddenly cut in, interrupting the thoughts of the Culler. "Thus far, Solyn's proved himself to be above our magic completely. We all know what his ash spawn are capable of."

Her emerald eyes glittered recklessly. "But there's two things he didn't count on," the Altmer went on. "One is Grimnir. The other is you, Cosette. I hate to say it," she said, holding up a hand to keep Cosette from speaking out, "but we're going to need more than magic to take Solyn down. Your brute force might give us the edge we need. And we can't risk losing that for a few drops of blood, even if it is for Malys."

Cosette saw Vinye draw out that elven dagger in her belt. "I should be the one," Vinye said, staring at Kinsbane. "You need me less than her, Grimnir. Let Malys have my blood."

There was no reply.

"Grimnir?"

Both mages whirled around, and noticed Grimnir had reappeared right next to Malys. One hand was still clutching his bound blade—but Cosette also saw something dark and red dripping from the jagged edges of the weapon.

And then she noticed Grimnir's other hand, formed into a fist—and hanging inches over Malys' body. The damaged black robes had been pulled back to reveal the gray flesh of the Dunmer, and Malys' black lips were stained with the blood that oozed from a wound in Grimnir's palm.

"That was the last piece I needed," Grimnir told them, his black mask peering over his shoulder at Vinye and Cosette. "I don't doubt how talented each of you are individually—I've run into adepts who have been less creative than you, Miss Vinye. And few people I know are as proficient with a sword as they are with a spell, Miss Ionsaithe.

"But that's no small task for even a novice," Grimnir told them, opening his bleeding fist, and the blood flow from his palm increased just a little bit. "The true test begins when that novice is no longer on his own, but is responsible for the safety and well-being of other people."

Grimnir finally withdrew his palm, and dispelled the bound sword in favor of some healing magic, which he used to reseal his wound in the time it took to draw breath. "I had to learn this myself when I first came to Winterhold—can you imagine?" he chuckled. "A living Nordic legend, having to learn as if he was a schoolboy again? The irony wasn't lost on my instructors—nor on my companions, and my friends."

Grimnir sat down with a grunt. "They weren't unlike you, you know," he said. "Each of them had something to prove, even if the … _circumstances_ of their arrival at Winterhold might have differed. Brelyna wanted to follow in the footsteps of her family, the Telvanni. Onmund wanted to do the exact opposite. And I'd wager my entire collection of masks that you can count the number of Khajiit sorcerers in Tamriel on one hand—so even J'zargo had a great deal of weight on his shoulders as well."

The Arch-Mage sighed. "We didn't start out as a terribly cohesive team," he chuckled again, "and we had some arguments of our own, to be sure. J'zargo would always take too long checking under floorboards for treasure and magickal power. Brelyna never saw the bigger picture for the longest time, so concerned was she about family honor. And what a shadow Onmund had been cast under—the prospect of training to be a master mage alongside the Dragonborn, of all people, must have sounded like such a starry prospect to him. But like Brelyna, he could occasionally be blind to the underlying truth of the matter.

"But then," Grimnir went on, "when it all mattered—when the odds were against us by all accounts—we finally came together. We banded as one cohesive team, and we truly believed we could conquer any obstacle in our way."

The black mask stared at them all, and Cosette almost thought she could see a gleam behind one of the eyeholes. "That's why I believe we can make it today," he confided to them. "That's why I know we can _win_."

Cosette could not figure out why, but the words of the Dragonborn had inspired something in her. For so long, she'd been trained by the Forsworn to reject the propaganda of the Nords, and their so-called "heroes" with them. Yet here stood one of these heroes before her, and the words he was speaking radiated a fire so intense Cosette nearly mistook it for her own. But where her flames were fueled by fury, and driven only by the Forsworn will to consume and destroy all else, _this_ fire felt more like the roar of a hearth—a welcome feeling after spending so long in the damnable cold of Winterhold.

But just as Grimnir's inspirational speech had fanned the flames beneath her heart, a black smoke rose to choke the Culler as she realized what had happened here.

"You were testing us," she said simply. "That transfusion was just a ruse, wasn't it? You had every intention of shedding your own blood in our place." She placed her hands on her hips. "You just wanted to see if we could live up to your lofty standards, didn't you?"

Vinye was listening to her with a raised eyebrow, and now the elf was directing a progressively more questioning glare at the Arch-Mage, who simply shrugged.

"As mortals, we are best defined in blood and fire," the Dragonborn spoke at length. "It is through trials like these that we can measure the best of us—and the worst of us," he added. "I'd wager you know that full well by now."

Cosette said nothing in reply. She knew she could not betray anything to Grimnir. But deep down, she knew he was right. The Culler had been put through a rigorous trial indeed in the ruins of Bthardamz—being forced to face not only the remnants of her shattered clan, but in reaffirming her allegiance to the Forsworn and the Cullers.

Mercifully, her train of thought was interrupted by a low groan from behind Grimnir, and despite herself, Cosette felt something unclench around her lungs that she hadn't even known she was there.

The Breton breathed a sigh of relief as Malys began to stir on the rocks. _She's all right …_

* * *

Mistress Malys' world was nothing but pain.

This was not new to Her—after all, She gave and took pain as others might take pleasure. But for Her, both pleasure and pain came in brief spasms of sensation—searing through Her body like sparks from a fire; here one moment, yet gone the next.

But the pain in Her chest that She had woken up to was persistent—a constant, stabbing pain that seemed to wrack Her entire body. She groaned, and felt something hard beneath Her body—rough and uncomfortable.

_Stone?_

Malys opened her mouth and groaned, and felt a most unexpected taste on Her lips. She didn't have to be a vampire to know the metallic taste of blood. She poked Her tongue outward, tasting the blood—it was surprisingly fresh, spilled just minutes ago, judging by how warm it felt. What was more, the pain in Malys' chest felt as though it was subsiding, as if the blood was somehow restoring Her. So it certainly wasn't Her blood …

She opened Her eyes, and saw a blurry mix of blue, green, and gray. If She squinted, she could make out the rough rock walls of a cavern. It was most unusual, though; something She could not see, out of Her field of vision, was lighting the space with turquoise light, like Aetherium—

And then Malys realized how she had come to be here—she remembered the Aetherium-enhanced spider catching her in the chest with a lightning bolt, and sinking into a vast, dreamless _nothing_ ; the pain in Her chest seemed to magnify tenfold as She recalled the encounter …

"Ugh," She coughed.

"Don't try to talk," a familiar voice spoke up. Malys lolled Her head to one side, and saw a head framed by a mass of flaming red hair.

"You've been through a rough time," cosette told her. "Those animunculi in the last chamber did a number on You. How are You feeling?"

Malys coughed again. "I feel like I just died," she grinned. cosette failed to suppress a chuckle at the bleak humor, and before long both mages were sharing a lighthearted moment of laughter—a rare occasion, and one that was desperately needed for everyone's morale, considering what they had had to go through to get to this point. Even vinye broke out into a rare smile when she and grimnir came over to see what was going on.

"So what did we miss?" Malys finally asked, after accepting and gratefully downing a potion from Vinye.

"Solyn's been putting that Aetherial pickaxe to good use, for a start," said the elf. "You probably noticed the _animunculi_ around here look a little different from the last time we were in this ruin."

cosette nodded, and began relating the story of their experience in the animunculory to vinye and grimnir.

"There were a lot more of them, too. I guess having all that extra time on his hands must have made Solyn bored," she said with a laugh. "I know I'd try to be creative with _my_ hands if I had to wait for somebody for years on end."

Malys stretched out her joints, feeling satisfying _cracks_ from each one as she tested her body, and eventually decided that the worst of Her injuries had been dealt with. cosette, She was pleasantly surprised to see, did not flinch from the sounds this time around.

"Now's not the time for jokes," said vinye in the meantime. "Those automatons got more than just a change in the way they look—they're much stronger than normal _animunculi_. The arch-mage and I passed through some kind of foundry earlier. I think the four of us ought to double back, see if we can't do anything to shut it down. Maybe we can halt Solyn's production of any more of these infernal machines."

"You might not need to," cosette chimed in. "Malys and I went through a room earlier that she said was an 'animunculory'?" The breton looked to Malys as she pronounced the word uncertainly, and She nodded back at her. "Anyway, they were assembling a lot of the automatons there—we saw more spiders inside that room than I ever thought a single ruin could have. But we destroyed them all—along with the ash spawn inside them. Something tells me that should have crippled Solyn from making too many of these bloody things."

The arch-mage cleared his throat. "You're forgetting the head of this particular Tsaesci," he said. "Solyn—if we take him out, that's the end of that. And it'll be easier if we just confront him directly than choke his production lines or starve him out. Also," grimnir added, and Malys was taken aback to hear the note of embarrassment, of all things, in his voice, "I might have collapsed our way back to the foundry to block any chance of pursuit. If we went back, we'd have to take a very long trip in the wrong direction."

Malys made as if to get up. "Then what are we waiting for?" She asked. She attempted to heave Herself off the slab of rock on which She'd been resting.

And then, quite suddenly, she fell again.

It was not on account of injury—no, something inside Malys felt very strange now. She could have sworn She had heard a growling noise just now; not from Her stomach—the blood She'd been offered had sated Her for the moment. _This_ growling was something different—as if something feral, like a sleeping beast, older than the world around them, had stirred in its rest. Surely She couldn't be hearing things?

"Are you okay?" vinye asked. She could hear the worry in her voice—and if Malys was honest, She was no less concerned Herself—but She waved off the elf anyway.

"Who gave Me that blood?" She asked, turning around to address the other mages. None of them bothered to speak up.

That vexed Malys greatly. "Who gave it to Me?" She asked again, a little louder this time.

Wordlessly, vinye and cosette pointed towards grimnir, whose ebon mask betrayed no guilt or confession. But Malys knew her two friends well enough to know they would not betray Her to the arch-mage.

"We volunteered to do it ourselves," vinye said quietly, not daring to look at Malys, "but he'd already done it … before we'd even thought to stop him … "

Malys understood what had happened, now—it had been grimnir who had done this deed for her, who had shed his own blood so that She might yet live. But She could not feel grateful for this—in fact, She felt all the more uneasy now. No matter how She looked at it, the facts—the reluctance of the mages, in contrast to grimnir's act of self-sacrifice—only led to one possibility.

Somehow, grimnir had known about Her all along. Maybe he didn't know what they knew, but it was enough. Now the arch-mage had something on all three of them—Malys was almost certain he suspected at least of cosette's affiliation with the Forsworn. And She had seen vinye skulking about from time to time, how the high elf's eyes would never quite seem to meet that strange, impassive mask. grimnir had something on her, too; Malys was sure of it—though whether it was vinye's connection to the Thalmor, or something more that that, She could not say.

And this feeling inside Her … it wasn't like anything She'd ever felt after feeding on blood. Something was aching inside Her, now … _burning_. It did not feel wrong inside her, but neither did it feel _right_ —it just didn't quite _belong_.

And yet, there was a small part of Her that wanted _more_.

* * *

It took the better part of an hour before Malys had recuperated enough to where she felt able to stand and move under her own power. It was at that point that Grimnir motioned them to continue on—they'd spent enough time resting, and everyone was inclined to agree.

They continued along the same cobblestone road that the mages had trod once before, taking in the sights around them. Grimnir looked particularly enamored with what he was seeing around him, especially with all the glowing fungi and vegetation. Not that Vinye could tell, but the way his mask turned this way and that left her in no doubt that the Arch-Mage was very impressed with this natural cavern.

"It reminds me of Blackreach," he remarked to them. Catching their looks of confusion, he went on, "One of the deepest ruins ever delved by the Dwemer, and certainly the biggest. A cave the size of a whole hold of Skyrim," the mask whispered breathlessly, "uncharted for hundreds of years. Who knows what more could lie down there?"

All the mages looked awed by this, except for Vinye, who merely nodded in understanding. So this place had a name, she thought. It was a pity, though, as Grimnir sounded like he knew more than enough about this 'Blackreach' to have ventured through there himself. Already she could see that treatise to the Synod and the College of Whispers, on the subject of an undiscovered kingdom under Skyrim, fading away into the mists of hopes and dreams—Grimnir would be mad to have not written about the matter himself by now.

 _So much for exclusivity_ , thought Vinye. It was no matter to her, however; the discovery of Aetherium had more than made up for this minor setback. And Vinye had not forgotten her promise to Katria. When all was said and done, she would be following through on that promise, and no mistake.

Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar sound of metal upon stone. Lightning snaked over the Altmer's arms at the same time she noticed a pair of Aetherial spheres far off in the distance, patrolling the road ahead at a slow but steady clip. They flanked a type of automaton that Vinye had never seen before; a large, squat, spiked machination, roughly as tall as Cosette and just a bit wider, that looked like a crab without claws. The thick 'shell' of this new _animunculus_ glowed too with the hated turquoise gleam of Aetherium, as did the spikes bisecting it down the middle, as well as a spherical contraption that Vinye assumed must be some kind of mechanical eye.

"A ballista," Grimnir grumbled as he saw this crab-like machine. "I've seen those before—the ruins on Solstheim were nigh crawling with them. Be very careful—those bolts they shoot can punch right through ebony armor."

Vinye took another, closer look at the mobile ballista, and noticed that the spikes she'd seen earlier were in fact the tips of some very large projectiles, longer than her outstretched arm. The Altmer shuddered at the prospect of having to deal with Aetherium-tipped ammunition—and Grimnir had even said normal ballista bolts could punch through ebony!

She grimaced. _We can't let that hit us, then_ , she thought.

"Look at this." Cosette tugged on the sleeve of her robe. "Those weren't here before, were they?"

The elf followed Cosette's outstretched finger to a scar in the earth the size of a house. It was recently excavated; Vinye saw giant mounds of dislodged dirt and stone—although the degree to which the stone had been broken apart led her to believe that it had not been merely dug up.

In fact, it looked more like it had been _blown apart_.

Vinye's eyes flew back to the ballista as a nasty thought sprang into her mind. _We_ really _can't let that hit us_.

"We'll handle the spheres, Arch-Mage," said Cosette grimly, unclipping one of her Forsworn blades and charging up a firebolt. "You've got more experience with that ballista thing; you take that out first. We'll back you up."

Grimnir aimed a pointed look at Cosette. "Just wait until I give the signal this time," he grunted. "We'll have to strike hard and fast—don't give them any chances to make you a target."

Everyone nodded, and at a silent signal from Grimnir, they dispersed off the road—Vinye and Malys heading left, Grimnir and Cosette heading right—just as the three automata before them began patrolling a section of the road much closer to them than before.

Vinye planned out a strategy as she moved to conceal herself behind an excavated pile of rubble. She knew the spheres would be easy enough to take down with a surprise attack. The Aetherium that formed most of their body armor did not extend to the joints of their body—including their hips and waist, which was by far the most important mechanism in the _animunculus'_ entire body.

A good-size bolt of lightning in the right place might be enough to disable it, Vinye decided. But she would have to be quick; a closer look at the spheres revealed a piston-like mechanism made of Aetherium, placed just below the crossbow mounted on their arm. The Altmer recalled how Cosette had witnessed these spheres firing a blast of compressed air from these pistons that was like the force of a gale, and how it had swept her right off her feet.

Malys could support her from the back with her healing magic, but Vinye had no idea how long she'd be able to do so. She glanced at the Dunmer, and slowly shook her head, hoping the message was clear: _You can use that vampire magic—but only as a last resort._ Vinye had no proof, certainly, but she did not want to give Grimnir any more suspicion than he already had of Malys' true nature—on the off chance he didn't know already, of course.

All this meant that she would only get one shot at this.

Her mind set thus, Vinye crept out from behind the pile of rubble, sparks arcing across her fingers. She took aim at the nearest sphere, took a deep breath—and fired.

The bolt hit right where she'd been aiming for; the force of the impact put a huge dent in the metal of the sphere's waist joint. The _animunculus_ staggered backward from the force of the impact, overbalanced, and fell to the ground. Two more bolts from Vinye hit one of its knees, ensuring that it could never get up under its own power again.

At the same time, Cosette—from a house's length over to her right—hurled a fireball at the other sphere. The Breton was not so lucky; the sphere had reacted just quickly enough to block the flaming missile with its left arm. Fortunately for the mages, this was the arm that contained the crossbow and Aetherial piston; the tiny mechanisms within these destructive weapons were jammed by the mage-fire, rendered useless in the time it took to draw breath.

As the sphere raised its Aetherium-edged blade, Grimnir made his move, leaping out from behind the rock pile with a grunt. " _Fus … Ro DAH!_ "

There was a deafening clap of thunder. Vinye saw a wave of blue energy blast out from Grimnir's mouth, expanding wider and wider until it engulfed the three _animunculi_ in its path. The sphere Vinye had disabled was swept up like flotsam in the tides; it sailed away from the mages until it hit another nearby rock pile with a loud _CLANG_. The second sphere—the one Cosette had partially disarmed—staggered backwards a fair distance, and floundered drunkenly to regain its balance, but was otherwise unaffected. The ballista, meanwhile, hadn't been affected at all. With a click-click-clicking noise, it turned to face Grimnir.

The Arch-Mage must have seen what was coming, Vinye thought, judging by his next shout—" _Feim … Zii GRON!_ "—just as the ballista released a heavy-looking bolt, tipped with an Aetherium point the size of Vinye's hand, right at Grimnir. But by then, more of the blue energy appeared from around him—and this time encased his own body. Suddenly, Vinye could see _through_ him now, past his body and toward the other side of the cavern—he'd changed his state of phase, she realized; he was nothing more than a very heavy gas at this point.

 _The ballista can't even touch him as long as he's like this_ , she thought as the bolt sailed right through where his heart and lungs would have been, impacting a pile of rubble with a tremendous burst of sound and blue-green light. _He really does know his way around these things_.

But the effect was only temporary; inside of a second, Grimnir was his normal, solid consistency once more. The Staff of Magnus twirled in his hand, aiming right for the ballista. Vinye noticed his black mask was now a cold, steel gray this time.

Then the staff released its ancient energy in a lance more blindingly white than Vinye had ever seen, slowly but surely drilling through the Aetherial armor of the ballista like it was nothing more than tissue paper. Within seconds, Grimnir had burned right through to the other end of the ballista, leaving behind a neat hole—dead center through the automaton's Aetherium shell—that looked wide enough to fit Vinye's entire arm.

Yet somehow—incredibly—the ballista was still standing. It was severely damaged, and sparked as it tried to bear down on Grimnir once more. The remaining sphere attempted to assist by charging forward at Grimnir, but the Arch-Mage was one step ahead of it. His free right hand erupted in golden energy, and solidified into the crude form of a dragon's scaly head. The ethereal gauntlet blocked the swordblade with a single swipe of Grimnir's arm, upon which he stabbed out at the sphere with the butt of his staff. The turquoise shard of crystal pierced its sword arm, splintering the smaller mechanisms of the appendage into metal fragments. A final fireball from Cosette blew up in its metal visage, sending it tumbling backwards into the rubble, never to rise again.

But the sphere, perhaps knowingly, had not sacrificed itself in vain. Its actions had given the ballista enough time to stumble back on to its feet, and aim another Aetherium bolt directly at the Arch-Mage.

Vinye knew there was no time for her to distract the _animunculus_. She could only watch as the bolt seemed to sail in slow motion from within the ballista—and straight towards the Dragonborn.

Cosette attempted to send a firebolt at the ballista, but the Aetherium, damaged though it was, still deflected it with little effort. Malys, daringly, tried to intercept the bolt and rush it down, and likely would have succeeded to some extent had Vinye not pulled her back—

" _Fus … Ro DAH!_ "

Suddenly there was an enormous explosion, quickly followed by a flash of bright aquamarine light that sent everyone sprawling on the excavated ground. Then—with what little hearing she could spare—Vinye heard a crunching noise from ahead and off to her left, roughly where the ballista had been before the explosion.

Slowly, she clambered up to her feet, sealing up the cuts and scrapes she'd suffered with her magic. Then she saw the scene before her, and forgot about her own state of health.

_No …_

Where the explosion had taken place, a whole section of the ground—and the cobblestone road on it—was simply _gone_. There was no trace of debris at all, not even the slightest bit of metal or dust—or of Grimnir.

Vinye whirled back to her left, where the crunching noise had come from. The ballista was completely destroyed, and by its own bolt, no less; the projectile had lodged itself deep within where its shell had once been. Now, there was no trace of the automaton's Aetherial armor left, save for twisted bits of the mineral, barely the size of septims that littered the whole area.

 _Auriel, save us_ , she thought in awe and terror at the scene.

A sudden, faint noise from off to her right distracted her; one of the piles of rubble was … groaning?

Vinye's heart nearly stopped. _Grimnir's alive!_ "Malys, Cosette!" she yelled. "Come on—help me dig the Arch-Mage out!"

The two mages stumbled up to answer her. Neither had fared better or worse than the other—a bit of blood still trickled from a head wound that Cosette now appeared to have sealed up, and Malys had a bit of a limp to her step. "I'll walk it off," she told Vinye shortly, before rolling up her sleeves to move away all the rock that covered the Arch-Mage.

It was quicker work than they expected; the biggest rocks were few and far between, and hardly bigger around than the average human head. Once they'd cleared away all of these, Grimnir stirred beneath the rest of the rubble, spilling it all to the ground as he slowly got to his feet.

"Right," he grunted. There looked to be a chip or three in that steel-gray mask, and Grimnir definitely sounded a little punch-drunk, but otherwise, he looked unharmed. "I'm not doing _that_ again," he said decisively. "Something in that bolt reacted with my Voice, caused that huge explosion. If I hadn't put on a flesh spell just before I'd Shouted, we might not be having this conversation—and you three might be digging out a corpse instead of an Arch-Mage."

And true to his word, Vinye saw the edges of his body glowing with the telltale sea green layer of magic that identified a flesh spell. The elf shuddered as she considered what might have happened if not for that spell. The world without a Dragonborn … Such a thought was almost inconceivable.

"It did answer one question, though," Cosette said as they resumed their journey to the Reliquary. The Breton peered at the road under her feet; several more Aetherium-tipped bolts littered over the road. "These bolts must've been how they were mining all the Aetherium here. Nothing else could break through the stuff."

Vinye gasped—Cosette was right. And she was, too; Vinye had suspected Solyn had known where to find more Aetherium the moment she'd seen the pickaxe he had forged. She had not, however, suspected he'd been able to find a source of the mineral that was so close to home, so to speak—never mind in such large quantities.

The process was simple, now that she thought of it: use the first pickaxe to begin breaking down the Aetherium deposits. Then, once enough had been extracted and pulverized into a more manageable size, use that inside the construction of the Aetherial automatons they'd encountered in Rkund up till now.

And there was more. "Remember those tunnels in the foundry we passed through, Arch-Mage?" Vinye asked.

Grimnir nodded.

"I'm willing to bet there were more of those ballistae in there, too," said the Altmer. "You might have even destroyed one of them when you cut a way through to this cavern. They must be trying to search for more deposits of that Aetherium within Rkund—I wonder if there might actually be any more."

"Oh, there's bound to be plenty of it. Which is why we need to put an end to Solyn's plans—whatever they might entail—as quickly as we can," said Grimnir. "But there's one thing I don't quite yet understand. I had a look at that _Aetherium Wars_ book Urag told me he'd picked up, and I seem to recall that it was virtually impossible to work with. Alchemically inert, unbreakable with conventional tools, among other things."

Vinye did not mention that the book was fraudulent—the chances were that Grimnir suspected this, too, and even if he didn't … well, Vinye didn't think it was all that relevant, all things considered. "So?" she challenged him.

Grimnir's mask bored holes into Vinye. "So how is it that Solyn was able to bend this material to his whim?"

Malys looked ready for this question. "There's a special forge, hidden deep beneath the Rift," she piped up. "That's where Solyn created a pickaxe out of the Aetherium we'd already collected."

"You misunderstand me," said Grimnir. "How did Solyn manage to not only smelt all this Aetherium, but incorporate it into these animunculi, without the aid of that forge?"

Vinye had no reply to this—that was something she admittedly hadn't considered. But Cosette still sounded skeptical. "We don't know that he _didn't_ use the Forge," she answered. "This is a _Chimer_ we're talking about her—one hell of a sorcerer. Solyn could've set up a link of some sort between here and the Forge—he could cross between the two in the blink of an eye."

"I'll admit that's true," said Grimnir as they reached the ramp that spiraled all the way to the top of the ruins—leading to the final hallway before the Reliquary. "But you're forgetting about his claudication spell. When you seal off a region in time and space, you have to leave yourself an anchor point—in this case, that would be the entrance to Rkund. Once the spell has been cast, there's simply no other way in _or_ out—not even through teleportation. If Solyn was indeed teleporting to this forge you found, then the claudication spell would've already been broken—and our intervention would have slowed him down even more."

Vinye listened to this with a growing sense of confusion.

Grimnir clucked his tongue before he continued on. "Before I left to catch up with you," he said, "Solyn visited me in my sleep."

There was a general outcry of surprise from the three mages—none more vocal than Malys. "Why didn't you tell us this?" she demanded.

"Up until now, I didn't consider it all that important," answered Grimnir, as they reached the top of the ramp, and approached the door framed by masses of pipes upon pipes, "just the delusions of another power-mad elf. But Solyn sent me a vision while he talked with me … and I think he's building something inside this ruin. Something big. Something he'd need a large amount of time for—and a claudication spell to boot—in order to make sure he completed it in time."

Vinye felt her confusion slowly turning into dread. Grimnir didn't know what they knew—that Solyn was after the Heart of Lorkhan. But surely he knew the things that infernal artifact had been associated with. The disappearance of the Dwemer … the transformation of the entire Chimer race, save for Solyn … the construction of the thousand-foot-tall Second Numidium …

"Whatever it is," Cosette said, her voice trembling slightly with a sense of foreboding, "I think we might find out soon enough."

By now, they had arrived at the door that had been trapped to excess with an incredible amount of spiders. Vinye had no doubt that with Grimnir by their side, such a trap would prove trivial the second time around. However, Grimnir had performed another detection spell at their insistence ( _"Laas … yah nir"_ ) and they were all pleasantly surprised to hear that there was nothing lying in wait for them.

But then Grimnir forced the door open, and in the instant before horror and blind panic set in, Vinye—and everyone else, judging by the similar expressions on their faces—knew that the Arch-Mage had miscalculated _very_ badly.

Filling the doorway completely was a massive centurion. Its shoulders, legs, and chest glowed with Aetherium, and Vinye could see that its face and the weapons mounted on its hands were lined with the substance as well. It stepped forward, and the floor shook with every step as the heavy construct plodded towards them.

The centurion suddenly hefted its halberd-arm at the mages. "Move!" Grimnir hollered. Cosette did so, and just in time—a massive burst of lightning arced from the tip of the weapon, and exploded where her feet had been just moments ago. Bits of the lip of the stone platform crumbled off and tumbled to the ground below.

"Back down!" Vinye was ushering them to the ramp, out of the _animunculus'_ line of fire, and then she heard a rumbling noise from far off in the distance. She looked towards the far end of the ruin, and felt her heart sink well past her stomach and into her bowels as she watched two more Aetherium-enhanced centurions emerge from hidden recesses in the rock walls.

Now there were _three_ centurions—three massive automatons, each one capable of destructive firepower, against three mages and a living legend of Skyrim. Even Vinye—who had been through the horrors of the purge of Falinesti—did not like those odds.

Especially considering that they were now well and truly trapped.

"How did you not detect those bloody things?" Cosette was seething at Grimnir as they scrambled further down the ramp, the first centurion still in pursuit.

"I don't know!" the Arch-Mage retorted, the black mask back upon his face. "That damned Aetherium, I'll wager. It must have masked the rest of the golem from my Shout somehow."

"We have to split up!" Malys shouted, grunting as a stitch tore through her. "We're dead if we stay together!" The Dunmer peered upward at the top of the ramp, where the centurion still lay in waiting, and suddenly skidded to a halt.

"You three take those two behind us!" she hollered. "I'll handle this one!"

"Do you have a death wish?" bawled Cosette—Vinye, despite her knowledge of Malys' power, couldn't help but agree with the Breton here. "You can't take one of those things on by yourself!"

Malys smirked. "Trust me," she winked devilishly. "It'll be just like that one time in Arkngthamz."

And before either Cosette or Vinye could say anything, the vampire had doubled back to face what was surely an insurmountable challenge. There was a war cry, followed by another blast of lightning. More bits of metal and stone were hurled into the air; Vinye thought she heard a scream, but there was too much noise to be certain.

She made as if to go back upstairs to check on Malys—perhaps lend a hand if necessary—only to be stopped by Cosette. "Leave her," the Breton said resolutely, nodding towards the other two centurions, who were more than halfway across the cavern now. "We've got our own problems to deal with at the moment."

Vinye cast a long look upwards where Malys was. Another echo of cannon fire sounded from above—that had to mean Malys was still alive and on her feet, if only just. Vinye sighed—there was nothing else for it. Lightning wrapped around her hands, and she sprinted off after Cosette after downing a quick potion to help restore her magicka.

The two centurions, meanwhile, had halted their advance in the middle of the cavern. They watched through unseeing eyes at the three mages now recklessly charging for them.

Suddenly, those eyes began to glow. Vinye heard the sparks just barely, and the hairs raising on every single part of her body told her what was going to happen an instant before it did.

"DUCK!" she screeched, diving behind a pile of rubble—and not a moment too soon. The glowing eyes of the centurions flared—and suddenly a deafening, never-ending crackling noise split the world in two as lightning poured forth from the Aetherium implanted within those eyeholes.

Vinye clapped her hands over her ears. It was more lightning than she had ever experienced in a single moment of her lifetime—even that day when she had encountered the Dragonborn for the first time, when he had used his own immense lightning attack to counter and deflect the lightning-breath of a deadly dragon. The baleful stare of the centurions vaporized everything in their path, ripping the cobblestone road apart and leaving foot-deep gashes of rough, grayish-black glass in the ground.

Then, almost as quickly as it had begun, the assault had ceased. Vinye heard a screaming noise through the ringing of her ears, and it was only when she took her hands off her head that she realized that had been her screaming all this time. Her heart was almost humming, it was racing so quickly; she could not believe the awesome power she had witnessed from Dagoth Solyn's deadliest creation yet encountered.

" _Krii … Lun AUS!_ "

Vinye turned just in time to see a wave of bright purple fire erupt from Grimnir's mask, now bluish-green again instead of black. The flames washed over the centurion nearest them, and immediately it began to glow a sickly, pinkish color.

"Now's your chance!" roared the Arch-Mage. "I've weakened its armor! _Pour it on!_ "

Vinye knew this was no time to slack off and let her own self recover. Grimnir had given her and Cosette a chance to strike while the iron was hot, and neither of them wasted no time in taking advantage of the opportunity.

Both her and the Breton let fly with lightning and fire. Cosette had even summoned a flame atronach to assist her, and both of the slender daedra's searing claws were applying a steady volley of firebolts at the weakened centurion. The missiles peppered the Dwemer golem in every possible place they could reach, but it was clear that even now, they weren't doing enough damage to the godlike _animunculus_.

Once, several of her lightning bolts hit the Aetherium armor of the centurion—which was thicker in some places than even the dense shell of that ballista Grimnir had disabled—and had actually bounced off. One had even singed the sleeve of her robes, on the same hand that had fired that particular bolt. Since then, Vinye was very careful to aim at a part of the body that wasn't covered in that accursed bluish-green substance.

Then Grimnir joined them with some summons of his own—more of the flaming, ghostly wyrms Vinye had seen him use to kill that dragon. They snaked outwards, one from each hand, and wrapped themselves around the centurion's arms. Grimnir roared in exertion as he pulled tightly against the opposing force of the automaton.

Vinye watched the spectacle in amazement—the Dragonborn was incredibly strong, there was no doubt about that. But flesh and metal had their own separate advantages and disadvantages—and not even the Dragonborn could continue this feat of strength for much longer.

Then Grimnir pulled his head back and inhaled—and Vinye suddenly realized that Grimnir had no intention of prolonging this battle any longer.

" _Yol … Toor SHUL!_ "

A massive stream of fire erupted from the Dragonborn's mask, and hit the centurion right in its unarmored groin. When the flames had subsided, there was nothing left of the joints there but a lump of molten Dwemer metal. The centurion's legs crashed to the road with a very final-sounding SMASH, and the rest of it followed soon after. Only then did Grimnir release his spectral dragons, no longer needing to immobilize that automaton any further.

But there was still one more of the centurions to deal with—and another torrent of lightning sprayed from its metal eyes an instant after Vinye had recognized this obvious fact. As she downed another potion from the safety of the rock pile she'd just dived behind for cover, she decided to follow Cosette's lead in approaching this next foe.

When taking on an opponent of this size and danger, numbers were crucial—the more of a fighting force you had, the better off you'd be in the battle to come. Vinye and Cosette both knew this to be true; just like Ugluk of Largashbur in his Daedric armor, whatever enchantments lay within the enhancements of the Aetherium in this automaton wouldn't help it fend off multiple attacks from multiple angles. No—the centurion, for all its raw power, could only focus on one target at a time.

With this knowledge in mind, Vinye knew what to do.

From the safety of the pile of rubble beneath her, she placed both hands upon the rocks and called forth a storm atronach. The daedra exploded up from the pile of debris, crackling with electricity as it lunged for the centurion.

Next to her, Grimnir had summoned an atronach of his own—a hulking monstrosity of semi-transparent ice, half as tall and broad again as he was. The frost atronach brought its jagged, cauldron-sized fists together in a silent challenge to the _animunculus_ , before it too charged into the fray.

Finally, Cosette had brought out another flame atronach, bringing the odds to six-against-one.

Vinye hoped that would be enough.

The centurion released another lightning blast from its eyes, wiping out Cosette's atronach in the blink of an eye. The Breton didn't look all that fazed as the daedra exploded harmlessly far from the centurion; she ducked and weaved from one pile of rubble to the next, stopping only to hurl the occasional fireball at the automaton. One of the missiles hit the centurion full in the face, staggering it and leaving an ugly black blotch on the metal visage.

"I think I've taken out its eyes—it won't be able to shoot that lightning now!" shouted Cosette from her cover. "Vinye, get in up close and personal with that son of a bitch! It won't be able to reach you in close combat—their bodies don't allow for it!"

Grimnir had heard this, and had already sent in his frost atronach to within melee range—perhaps to test out Cosette's strategy. To Vinye's surprise, it appeared to be working; Grimnir's atronach, as a creation of ice magic, could not damage Dwemer with the extreme cold it generated, as with other elemental cloaks like fire and lightning. But it didn't take a master mage to discern that this particular species of atronach was built for causing brutal physical attacks as well, and Vinye could already see that the frost daedra had already caused a few dents in the unarmored parts of the centurion.

She reached out to her storm atronach. _Closer_ , she commanded.

The storm atronach obeyed her right as the centurion raised its halberd-cannon at Grimnir's atronach. It fired, and the ball of lightning blasted the frost daedra into a fine mist of vapor. It took aim again, this time for Vinye's atronach, and fired a second burst. But _this_ summons, as a creation of lightning as well, was unfazed by the assault, and swatted aside the centurion's third volley with a swipe of its electrified arm as it continued to push forward.

The daedra's next strike was a very hard right into the groin of the centurion that made even Vinye cringe to see it. Then, she heard a loud _bang_ from somewhere in the casing of the automaton, and the massive golem sparked, jerked spasmodically, and finally toppled backward with a deafening CRASH.

When the noise of the battle subsided, it was replaced by a silence that felt like it was pressing in on Vinye's eardrums. But she didn't care—the three of them had just taken out two of the toughest enemies they'd yet faced. Cosette didn't even care that she hadn't got to land the final blow on either of them; the Breton was happier than Vinye had ever remembered seeing her—if Vinye hadn't already known better, her clan and her family might still be alive, she was grinning so widely.

And then Vinye remembered the third centurion, and a chill swept over her body.

"Malys," she said softly—and then bolted for the ramp to the Reliquary, Grimnir and Cosette not far behind.

The stonework had been absolutely ravaged—there were places in the ramp where Vinye had to jump to find sure ground, so scarred was the surface. There was complete and total silence from the ramp above, and Vinye could not know what to make of it. She'd expected to hear the plodding footsteps of a centurion by now, patrolling the summit to pick off any survivors—but there wasn't any sound of any kind, only the ever-present hum of unseen machinery echoing in the cavern.

As they neared the top, Vinye bade the others slow down, and she crouched down until she was nearly on all fours—if that centurion was indeed still there, she wanted to maintain any advantage they had for as long as they had. She held out her hand, ready to loose a lightning bolt at a moment's notice.

Slowly, almost painfully so, she peered over the lip of the platform at the top to take in the scene before her. As she had expected, the centurion was still there.

But she had _not_ expected said centurion to be scattered into a hundred pieces over the floor.

Nor had she expected Malys to be sitting in the middle of the wreckage, sipping a potion as if she had all the time in the world.

"I was wondering what happened to you," said the Dunmer quite calmly, her eyebrows slightly raised as if she'd just encountered a particularly fascinating sight. Her face and robes were drenched in oil. "What took you all so long?"

* * *

"How did you do it?" Vinye was asking for the third time, still as slack-jawed as she was five minutes ago, while Cosette took the time to rest up and get her strength back.

"I had to wait until he let his guard down," Malys replied, shooting a look at Grimnir, and then lowering her voice. "You know I can't really say more than that."

Cosette listened to the conversation with only a minimal amount of interest. Malys had not been lying when she claimed it would be like Arkngthamz all over again—vampire magic and all. It was a pity they could not have stuck around to see the fight for themselves—though perhaps that was for the best, Cosette thought as her eyes flicked over to Grimnir, who was calmly drinking a restorative potion of his own.

Inevitably, she found her gaze drifting back toward Malys. A month ago, Cosette would have been beside herself with fury at the sight of the Dunmer seated in front of her—a _frost mage_ of a Dunmer, no less, who had just taken out a dwarven centurion that had been upgraded to Oblivion and back.

But over time, she'd gotten to know this dark elf. They'd had their rough patches, certainly—Cosette would never quite forgive her for keeping the fact she was undead a secret from her for so long—but in the time since that first lesson with Tolfdir, and their first foray into the ruins of Rkund, she felt almost like a sister to the Breton now.

An annoying younger sister, maybe—well, perhaps not _younger_ , but a sister nonetheless. They'd shared all their secrets with one another now—something that not even the Dragonborn could lay claim to. Cosette no longer cared about how much Grimnir knew about her past or her affiliations.

Right now, she was just happy that they were all alive.

* * *

But eventually, the reality of the situation would come to surround them all—and it was at that precise moment that the four mages, no less the worse for wear, finally arrived within the Reliquary.

The circular room was markedly different than first time she'd been in here, noted Cosette—not least because of the smooth pillar of rock that had seemingly erupted from out of nowhere. The lamps had all been lit as well, throwing the whole room into a bright, flickering light that would have almost felt welcome if not for what lay beyond. The platforms that held the carvings for Kagrenac's Tools were still there, but they almost looked a little cleaner than Cosette had remembered them.

And then it hit her. _He's here_.

" _Laas … yah nir,_ " Grimnir muttered again. He was silent for a few moments, before calmly striding forward to the pillar in the center of the chamber.

"It's all right," he said. "There's nothing else in here. There's no other automatons, no other nasty surprises in store for us."

Even as the three mages stepped forward to follow him, Cosette sensed Grimnir wasn't done talking—and she was right.

"However," Grimnir went on, "there is something else here. It's faint, but alive and well—and a hundred feet straight down."

Even as he said the word, the pillar began to move, slowly rotating around its axis until Cosette could see a tiny tunnel threaded into the stone. She barely caught the glimpse of a spiral staircase, and torchlight dancing on the walls of the way down.

"This is it," Vinye whispered under her breath; Cosette almost didn't hear her. "There's no turning back now."

Malys nodded. "No matter what happens ... from here on out," said the vampire, her voice unusually thick, "I'm glad I got to know you all."

"Likewise," Vinye replied back. Grimnir nodded silently in agreement.

"Same here," Cosette heard herself say, as though her own body was miles away from here.

It had felt like such a long trip—and yet such a short trip as well. But Cosette hoped that when it was all over, she would finally be at peace.

But in order to find that peace, blood would still have to be shed—and Cosette Ionsaithe had no intention of letting her own blood be spilled before she had her revenge.

"We stay together," Grimnir murmured beneath his mask, and everyone nodded in agreement. " _Krif voth ahkrin … wah faal dinok._ "

With that, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold led the way down the staircase. Cosette followed behind him, then Malys, and finally Vinye.

It seemed to take an eternity before the narrow stairs opened up into the open space beyond—but when it did, Cosette had forgotten completely about her promise of revenge.

It was just like inside the Aetherium Forge—a massive cavern, wide enough to swallow Winterhold in a single gulp. Gigantic pipes pierced the rock ceiling, winding this way and that, and then dipping straight down into the veritable sea of molten rock that encircled the stone island a hundred feet in every direction. The heat was unbearable.

But it was not this that held Cosette's attention so thoroughly—or indeed, that of the other mages as well. It was the sight of the familiar-looking mass of pipes and metal before them, that spat magma by the barrelful and belched whole clouds of steam.

Suddenly those clouds of steam were swept aside, as if by some giant invisible hand, and Cosette Ionsaithe felt her blood boil hotter than the bubbling lake of lava around her as she saw the scene clearly for the first time.

There, before the massive construction, attended by a full dozen ash spawn—almost perfectly camouflaged against the Dwemer metal in a gleaming golden robe—was Dagoth Solyn.


	22. XXI

XXI

Cosette was never really sure how she didn't charge for the thrice-damned elf the moment she saw him. She'd charged down powerful mages in the past—her mind went one more time to Orchendor and Taron Dreth—and had emerged the victor there. Perhaps it was the fact that this time, her opponent was not alone; the ash spawn by his side were never more than ten paces from him, and something in their stance told Cosette she would likely have to get through them first before she could concentrate her full fury on Dagoth Solyn.

The Chimer turned around to regard his new visitors, and immediately Cosette was struck by how _different_ the elf looked. The golden skin and burning golden eyes were still there, just barely visible beneath the hood of Solyn's robes. But the gold was no longer flawless—an uncountable number of wrinkles lined the face of the elf, leaving no one in doubt of just how vastly more ancient and experienced he was than the rest of the mages combined. And something had _changed_ in the eyes—they no longer merely burned, but _blazed_ with a light that the Culler was quick to equate with the most fanatical of the Forsworn.

And yet, three things were clear to Cosette from the moment she'd laid eyes on this Chimer. First, seeing the changes that had come over Solyn told the Breton that five years' worth of solitude had not been kind to him. The elf had shut himself in this space, in the midst of all this fire and brimstone, without any contact from the outside world at all.

Second—and Cosette knew full well this was not her imagination, and anyone who told her such was a liar—Solyn looked _bigger_ under that robe than when they'd last met. Not just wider—but taller and broader as well. He looked as tall as any Orc now, except maybe Ugluk. She wondered if he was wearing something under that robe—if the stared, she thought she could see a flash of color under there, but that could just be a trick of the light. It might even have been a trick of Solyn's, it was no secret he was a master of illusion.

But it didn't matter to Cosette; what had truly drawn her attention was no illusion. As she saw the face of the Chimer for the second time in her life, the rage began to rear in her once more, and once again it took one of her greatest efforts to hold back from striking.

Dagoth Solyn, damn the man, was _smiling_.

"Ah," breathed the Chimer, as if he was welcoming his guests into his parlor instead of one of the deep places of the world. "Have you come for me, then? I must admit; I didn't expect to be seeing you so soon. I was planning on showing you my newest creations when you arrived, but I'm afraid they'll need a few minutes before they're ready."

If Cosette didn't know any better, it sounded as if he'd been _expecting_ them. And that was only making her angrier.

"You don't have _minutes_ , Solyn," Grimnir answered him back. "It's over. Your dreams of conquest die with you!"

"Conquest?" For the first time, Solyn looked angry as he spat out the word. "After everything I've done—after everything I've sacrificed—you would call this conquest? Is that all I am to you, Dragonborn—another … _obstacle_ in your quest to achieve ultimate power?"

Grimnir shook his head. "Your father brainwashed you well," he murmured. "There's no such thing as ultimate power—and if there is, then no one was meant to possess it. Not the Daedra, not the Divines—and certainly not power-mad mortals."

Solyn growled, an odd sound to hear from someone who'd previously sounded so calm and collected. "You think I'm doing this for my own self? _You_ are the one who's been brainwashed, made to believe all the lies that have been spread about my father—about my clan, my people!"

Solyn began pacing about the platform. "Out there is my _home_ , Dragonborn—shattered and barren, as it has been for two hundred years! The children of Morrowind are no less splintered; they have lost their sense of direction as well as their ancestral home. _They have nothing!_ " he spat, whirling upon Grimnir and hurling the words at him as if they were knives. "But I can give them what they need, Dragonborn—I can become the guiding light that the dark elves have long lacked for centuries on end! I can give them back their home, their future, and more!"

Malys suddenly stepped forward. "As a dark elf myself," she said, with all the calm and poise of a snake rearing to strike, "I think I'm more than qualified enough to tell you this: I would rather die than live a life like that under the likes of a traitor like you."

"Malys, no!" Vinye shouted from behind Cosette.

Solyn stiffened at the insult. "You would dare—?"

Malys waved them both off. "You just don't get it, do you, Solyn?" hissed the vampire. "You don't understand just how long you've been gone from Tamriel. Everything you've lived for and strived for has _changed_ —and there is no way you're going to be able to change it back. Even if you had that kind of power at your grasp, you could never convince me or the rest of my people to follow you."

Solyn smiled again, wider this time; it looked almost terrifying on his golden face. " _If_ I had it at my grasp?" he sneered at them. "I've had that power all this time! Or have you just now realized exactly _what this is?_ "

He swept his gloved hand back at the giant dwarven machine that towered over them all, and it was at that point that Cosette remembered what Solyn had done here.

"The Aetherium Forge," Vinye whispered in awe. Cosette didn't know if she was scared or impressed by the sight—and it didn't sound like the elf knew how to feel, either. "How did you … in so short a time … ?!"

"I'm too modest to boast," Solyn replied with a smirk. "Let's just say I have a _very_ capable memory, even for a Chimer and a Dagoth. One glance at the genuine article in the ruins of Bthalft that you uncovered was enough for me to not only understand it—but _replicate_ it."

So that was how he'd been producing those Aetherium automatons, Cosette realized. Dagoth Solyn hadn't needed to access the Aetherium Forge at all—he'd simply built his own here! It was so simple an idea that she didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before; it all made sense now. After mining the Aetherium in that cavern and beyond, he'd refined the Aetherium here. He'd then purified it, shaped it according to his design, and shipped it throughout the ruins of Rkund wherever it needed to go from there—the animunculory that Cosette and Malys had cleared out must have been only one of many such destinations.

Now it was Grimnir who advanced. "I cannot allow you to continue this, Solyn," the bluish-green mask declared. "From what I have seen of your creations thus far, I don't believe your ends could justify the means you would use to achieve them. History has told us enough on _that_."

He drew back, and Cosette instinctively covered her ears.

" _Ven … Gaar NOS!_ "

The scalding air around Grimnir swirled and screamed as he Shouted, causing his robes to flutter with the sudden gusts of wind that had blown in from apparently out of nowhere. Then, Grimnir stamped his foot down on the stone, and the cyclone of air rushed towards Solyn and his minions—

—only to be repelled by the Chimer; Solyn's gloved hand flicked once, and a silver flash of light exploded outwards, dispelling the cyclone and knocking all four mages off balance.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow _you_ to interfere, Dragonborn," countered the golden elf. He had now turned himself fully around to regard Grimnir directly, and Cosette felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise; a surge of magic was building up inside Solyn, lifting him several feet off the ground as if he had wings.

"My creations are harmonically volatile, you see," Solyn went on. Now his own robes and raiment were beginning to swirl as he levitated himself higher still. "If your Voice was to resonate with them, while they were still not yet complete—well, who knows what might happen?" he smirked. "You could end up collapsing this entire ruin, and then where would you be?"

He glanced downward at the ash spawn surrounding him. "Restrain the mages. Silence the Dragonborn. They will all see the culmination of my efforts before they die."

Suddenly, Solyn spread his arms outward, faster than Cosette had been expecting. One hand glowed with the teal-light of a flesh spell—which was presently washing over Solyn's body, its luminous turquoise glow adding further to the brightness of his golden robes. The other hand swirled with dust and wind, and before long, so too did the rest of Solyn. Within seconds, the Chimer's form was almost entirely obscured in clouds of grayish-brown ash, with only the gleam of the flesh spell indicating that he was still there.

At the same time, the ash spawn hefted their weapons and spells, and charged.

" _Cozy!_ "

The Breton needed no further encouragement. Even before Malys had called out to her, both of Cosette's Forsworn blades were in her hands in the time it took to breathe, and the Culler screeched a war cry as she charged forward. The serrated edges of her swords shredded into the chest of the first ash spawn, dispelling it with an explosion of searing dust.

The two sides had been joined. The battle had begun.

Vinye's arms crackled with lightning, and she brandished Kinsbane in a classic fencing position to fend off the ash spawn nearest her. The Altmer's entire body glowed with a pale blue light, and was practically radiating magicka as she sent bolt after bolt at Solyn, while simultaneously fending off his minions with naught but a small elven dagger. Malys, however, wasn't even bothering with magic; like Cosette, she'd charged for a pair of ash spawn, picking up a discarded Dwemer strut as she did so, and swung this at anything within reach like an improvised club.

But Cosette did not care about what was going on around her. The Breton's berserker instincts had taken full hold of her senses; all she cared about now was the golden elf in front of her, and the ash spawn that stood in her way. She lashed out at another of the humanoid monsters with her blades, plunging one into its red-hot … whatever passed for a heart in these abominable things. Then, with a war cry, Cosette pulled her sword back out, leaving a gaping hole in its body. One final swing decapitated the construct, causing it to crumble at her feet.

Grimnir, meanwhile, had been quicker on the uptake than any of them—he'd already brought out his staff before Solyn's spells had taken full effect, and he now blasted a lance of blue-white energy that sliced through half the ash spawn that were preparing to assault him. Another well-timed Shout—" _Ven … Grah VEY!_ "—carved through the remaining three like thousands of hot knives through butter.

"No!" Solyn brought his hands together, spewing whole clouds of ash straight for Grimnir, but the Arch-Mage was ready for him, both hands shining with the silver light of a ward. The miasma was deflected to either side of the Dragonborn—but Cosette barely noticed the clouds circling behind Grimnir, like the deadly pincers of a chaurus—

"Look out!" someone yelled—Cosette wasn't sure who did—but the pincer had already closed. Grimnir had time to dispatch one more of the ash spawn with his staff before he was engulfed in the clouds of ash. They swirled and churned around him, obscuring him completely.

Hovering high aloft, Solyn waved his arm with a grunt, and the clouds were dispelled in an instant—revealing a very dirtied, very roughed-up … and very _still_ Grimnir. The blue on his robes was nowhere to be seen, so much ash had accumulated on his body. The Arch-Mage of Winterhold toppled to the ground, and did not get up.

"NO!"

This time, Cosette knew who had shouted. But Vinye's expression of horrified disbelief was gone almost as soon as it had appeared, and the high elf's teeth grit against one another so fiercely Cosette thought she saw sparks fly from her mouth as well as her fingers. She could not blame her—suddenly, for one brief moment, the Breton's rage had been snuffed out.

The fight hadn't even entered its first minute, and already Grimnir was down—perhaps even dead.

Cosette doubted that was the case—some part of her suspected that the Dragonborn was tougher than that. Still, she knew he'd been done in by the same magic Solyn had used to effortlessly kill Taron Dreth—and presumably that group of bandits above the Forge as well. It was a classic strategy, military as well as psychological: take out the strongest mage first; cut off the head, and the body would die. But Cosette, deep inside some part of her mind, knew enough about nature to know that it wouldn't go without a fight.

Once, as a child, the Culler had seen a Forsworn sentry kill a viper with a single arrow. She had watched in morbid fascination as the serpent spent its final moments in life thrashing about so violently that the arrow was flung right out of its body. The snake had not survived, naturally, but it had not bowed its head and resigned itself to its fate.

Nor, tonight, would Cosette, or anyone else with her. In fact, Cosette was dimly aware that Solyn's decision to attack the Arch-Mage first might well have been the first mistake the Chimer had made.

Unfortunately, the _less_ rational part of her yet remained in control of her body, and the Breton was now currently engaged in wiping out every last ash spawn within reach of her twin blades. She paid only scant attention to Vinye and Malys, who were busy assaulting Solyn with ice and lightning, both to no avail; the Chimer's defenses were simply too strong. But Vinye had been right: Solyn had not counted on one of these mages being proficient at more than just mere magic. The only question left was: could Cosette break through to him?

The Breton continued to hack away at the ash spawn; a lesser man would have certainly passed out from exhaustion by now. But Cosette had three things working in her favor. First was her conditioning; Cullers were expected to be better than the Forsworn in every way—strength, stealth, and stamina, among others. Next was her resolve—her wish to be the strongest and most feared of the Cullers so that the Forsworn would one day be unstoppable.

And finally, there was her fury. Dagoth Solyn had cheated her out of her revenge against Taron Dreth. For the Forsworn, bloodshed was to be paid with bloodshed, no matter how great or small the offense. Cosette was not about to go back on this simple fact just because the murderer of her parents had been killed.

To her, this battle was a simple matter: she would not rest until every inch of her blades was stained with the Chimer's blood.

Solyn, meanwhile, seemed to realize that Cosette was hellbent on getting to him; the ash spawn were ignoring the others completely, and were now focusing Cosette down almost exclusively. The Breton didn't care; she would fight a hundred more like them if it meant killing Solyn once and for all.

There were only three of the monsters left, now—and one of them fell almost immediately to Cosette. The remaining two were unloading spell after fiery spell at the Culler, but she evaded the missiles constantly. The blasts sailed off into the molten lake that surrounded them, causing great explosions of lava in the distance. But the ash spawn were blasting at her on the move, and in a very specific direction as well: away from Solyn. Cosette belatedly realized that they were attempting to draw her as far away from the Chimer as possible, so that he would have more time to react to Cosette's next move.

She grimaced. There was a simple answer to that, she thought.

And as she maneuvered herself between both of the ash spawn, piercing each one with her Forsworn blades before they knew what had happened, Cosette made her next move.

She gave Solyn, still suspended in midair—and more importantly, still focused on Vinye and Malys—a brief look that felt like the longest moment in her life. Then, with a war cry, she hurled one sword, then the other, right at the Chimer. She silently cheered as the projectiles flew straight and true, right for Solyn's neck and chest—

—and bounced off.

_What?!_

Cosette stood there in undisguised shock as both weapons clattered harmlessly to the stone floor, coming to rest against the stairway leading up to the Reliquary. She could not believe that her blades had been so easily deflected—no, she thought. They hadn't even touched him!

She whirled back at the elf, and cursed. It was that ash of his, Cosette thought—it had to be. The damned stuff was swirling around him so fast that it might as well be a second suit of armor. She cursed again, this time at herself for not bothering to take this into account.

But her anger at herself quickly passed—the way to Solyn now was clear! Now, there was only one place Cosette needed to focus the anger she'd been carrying inside her all this time. She roared out in rage—and that was the only warning she gave before unleashing a roaring wave of mage-fire. She channeled her fury into those flames as they sped for the Chimer, letting them burn as hot and bright as they had in the Forge.

But again, Solyn's ash frustrated her: it behaved almost like a living thing; so fluid were the movements of the shifting clouds. Cosette's flames almost seemed to be devoured by the miasma, choked into thick smoke by the smothering ash. The Breton even saw Vinye and Malys sending their own attacks at Solyn, and to her growing annoyance, even they were unsuccessful; Vinye's lightning was constantly being fragmented by the ash—every single bolt was virtually nullified. Malys' ice magic was melting almost as soon as it made contact with the clouds.

Yet even as she steamed with the failure, Cosette knew instinctively that they could break through this—their only problem was that they were being too precise, putting their magic into single shots instead of a constant, wide barrage of it. Normally, that was very slow work; it was only good for wearing the enemy down over time—time the mages did not have. But if elements of the two strategies were combined …

Cosette grinned, and pulled back one of her hands, stopping it from producing more mage-fire, while at the same time spreading out the fingers of her other hand, widening the spread of the inferno. She felt the sweat begin to run down her brow—she had to be patient now; she had to lure Solyn into that false sense of security. Her output of mage-fire had dropped, now she just had to wait until his cloak of ash sensed the same thing—

There it was—for only a second, the clouds had shifted, and the haze had cleared slightly; her way was clear. As quickly as she could, Cosette charged a fireball as hot and bright as she'd ever made, so much so that it might have given the dragons pause, were any around to see it. She roared out in exertion, and flung the fireball with every last ounce of strength she could muster. The fiery missile—specially adapted for maximum damage over as wide an area as possible—sped for the miasma that covered Solyn with the speed and accuracy of an arrow—

BOOM.

For a moment, Cosette was forced to turn away from the explosion to protect her eyes from the surge of light. There was no sound of screaming, but Cosette was not interested in hear any; she could not let up now.

" _Vinye!_ " she bawled at the elf. "Pour it on!"

The Altmer seemed to understand, and a wide array of lightning danced from her fingertips as she spread them in Solyn's direction. The shield of ash that covered him was faintly smoking; the clouds still encircled him, but they were not nearly as fluid and protecting as before, thanks to Cosette's fireball. Vinye's lightning—she hoped the elf, smart as she was, would take the hint and adapt it to drain Solyn of his magicka—washed over everything in its path, over the replicated Forge, over the swirling remnants of the ash spawn— _wait, swirling?!_

No, Cosette hadn't been seeing things; the piles of ash that had once been the ash spawn were indeed stirring, reforming into something else completely: spinning piles of glowing rocks that looked not unlike Vinye's storm atronachs. The tornadoes of ash split in twain, and the two halves split further to form crude imitations of hands, and yet more ash swirled around these.

There were four of these, now—one for every three ash spawn they had just felled.

"Suppress them, now!" Solyn was heard to shout. "They cannot be allowed to intervene!"

He sounded less desperate for his life than for whatever was still cooking inside that forge, Cosette thought. There was something off about that—but she would ponder it later; for now, these new ash creatures presented a bigger problem. They were completely decentralized—Cosette wouldn't be able to bring them down with mere swordplay.

The Breton cast a look back at Grimnir, who still had yet to stir. She wondered if he'd faced anything like this before when Solyn had attacked, and wondered what he'd used to repel that invasion.

For now, however, they would have to rely on the next best solution—and Cosette was not sure how long that solution might last in the face of fire.

"Malys?" she called out. "Take over here—Vinye and I can support you from the back!"

The Dunmer appraised the situation with a glance here and there, before her fangs split in a grin and her gray fingers erupted in scarlet-colored magic. "You'd better stay behind me, then," warned the vampire, with no small hint of malice in her voice. "I wouldn't want you to get caught in the crossfire."

Cosette had enough sense of survival to obey her, and the Breton wasted no time in rolling behind Malys and preparing some healing magic in one hand, using her other hand to down a number of potions to recover all the magicka she'd expended in that offensive. She handed a few more to Vinye, who had been listening in, and the Altmer aborted her assault just long enough to follow suit before her hands were pouring forth more lightning again.

Malys, meanwhile, growled a little as she prepared her own offensive—and then the entire Forge was awash with her vampire magic. The ash creatures held up their pockmarked arms to try and deflect the magic, but to no avail. The Dunmer's magic seeped into the crevices of the body and beyond, seeking out the essence of the soul within—then extracting it. Within seconds, all five of the monsters were engulfed—but Malys was not done.

Neither were Solyn's constructs, but Cosette and Vinye were ready for them; as soon as they'd responded with ashy blasts of fire from their rocky hands, they were there to deflect the missiles with wards. As soon as they paused in their volley, Malys went to work. Her gray, spidery fingers _clenched_ , and she drew them back as if wrenching out the monsters' very souls—which on the whole, thought Cosette, might not be so very far from the truth. The vampire took it all into herself, hissing a little as she absorbed the essence of those constructs, and then flung her arms back. There was a burst of dark red light, and the ash that comprised the creatures fell once more to the stone floor.

" _This has gone on long enough!_ " bellowed Solyn over the din. Cosette felt yet another surge of magic erupt from the Chimer, and she failed to stifle an annoyed groan as those piles of ash rose into the air yet again. But they were soaring higher this time, and now they clumped together into something far larger than even those atronach-like creations—which themselves had been half as high again as any of the three mages—but the result of this new arrival absolutely _towered_ over the three mages.

Cosette only caught a glimpse of a low-slung body of glowing boulders, supported by four legs as thick around as tree trunks and twice as tall as any Dwarven centurion, before Vinye yanked her backwards. Then, that body hefted itself upward—before just as suddenly rushing back down with surprising speed, planting itself upon the stone with an earthshaking THUD that unseated the trio and nearly sent Cosette flying into the molten lake.

"What is that?!" screamed Malys; her burning eyes were wide as septims as she stared back at the monster. Cosette, as she clambered to her feet, now had a better look at it from a further distance back, and was surprised to see how uncannily similar to a human fist the main body of the construct appeared as it continued to pound the stone below it, shaking the cavern and causing clouds of ash to fall upon the mages—

And then Cosette got a better look at the monster, and realized what was going on—the clouds weren't coming from the ceiling of the cave, they were coming from the monster itself; it was producing the ash from a chimney-like protrusion on its main body, which could only mean—

"Get away from the clouds!" Cosette screeched. The mages didn't need telling twice; all three knew from experience that Solyn's ash was as good as any paralysis spell. They backed against the staircase, safe from retaliation for the moment—but they all knew that Solyn would hunt them down eventually.

"How are we going to get through that?" Vinye looked lost as she stared back at the massive construct. Malys looked apprehensive—which from her was nothing less than sheer terror—and even Cosette wasn't feeling too confident right now. The Breton felt like a trapped rat, and she wasn't doubting the others felt the same way.

She stared back at Solyn, and cursed him; the golden elf looked more radiant than ever against the roiling sea of molten rock, and glowing clouds of ash that spewed from the monster—

 _Wait_.

She was staring right at Solyn. She could see the glow of his golden eyes perfectly.

 _The ash surrounding him was gone_.

Suddenly, Cosette was grinning—the Chimer had just made his second mistake. "We won't need to," Cosette confided to them both. "Solyn put too much magic into making that thing, he's left himself vulnerable! His shield is down—if we act fast, we can take him out now!"

Vinye peered outward. "We need a diversion," she said quietly after scanning the scene for a moment, and she was now rummaging in her satchel. "Malys—I know you're a vampire, but you're also a dark elf. You can take heat and fire better than any other vampire, and better than any of us can, I'd wager. But just in case," she produced a bottle full of gray liquid, sealed with a bright blue cork, "drink that up. It'll boost your magic resistance even further. You'll draw off that giant … whatever it is away from him and Grimnir." Her jaw was set, and had a grim look to it. "Cosette and I will focus down Solyn."

Malys stared at the bottle, then peered over her shoulder, before she shrugged. "Here goes nothing," she murmured, and then she downed the contents of the bottle in a single gulp.

Vinye didn't want to waste any time. "Go now, go!" she ushered the vampire, "before it wears off!"

Malys took a deep breath, and then sped out from behind the staircase with the speed of a rabbit.

Cosette took the time to watch Malys, and barely noticed Vinye creep alongside her out of the corner of her eye. Malys was clearly getting the monster's attention; every so often, she would lash out with her vampire magic, but just enough to hold the construct back. But the massive mobile collection of rocks was inching closer and closer to her; before long, the clouds had engulfed her completely. Cosette could just barely see her form moving within the miasma that the monster was gnereating—Vinye's potion was doing its work, but for how much longer?

And then she heard a massive CRACK come from Solyn's construct—and even before the ash clouds were dispelled by the force of whatever impact was behind all that, Cosette suspected Malys didn't want to wait around long enough to find out.

Nor did the Breton have long to wait to find out what had caused that; as the ash cleared, Cosette saw Malys with her fist raised high—right against the massive main body of the monster. A large crack had nearly split the construct in two, and it was beginning to wobble and shiver in a way that could only mean it was about to crumble to dust in the face of Malys' inhuman strength.

Vinye, however, was not keen on waiting around. "NOW!" she screamed, so loudly it left Cosette's ear ringing. As the monster disintegrated around Malys, who sprinted quickly to safety and rejoined the two mages, Vinye's hands erupted in lightning. She sent one blindingly white bolt at Solyn, it flew straight and true, and hit the Chimer full in the chest, and he roared in agitation.

But Vinye was not finished. She sent a second bolt, then a third, each time more and more lightning bolts—progressively stronger and increasingly more accurate. Cosette only just realized what Vinye was trying to do; the Altmer wasn't intent on landing the killing blow at all, she knew her lightning was good for merely surgical strikes against powerful opponents. Finishing blows to such opponents, on the other hand …

Cosette grinned as she brought both her hands together. A fireball this size would have no chance of missing Solyn—but she had to act quickly, while Vinye was still wearing him down.

And right before the Altmer's torrent of lightning ceased, and Vinye fell to the stone floor completely spent, Cosette howled out a final war cry—and launched her last fireball at the unprepared Solyn.

" _BURN!_ "

The gigantic missile of flame hit Solyn full in the chest, reducing his robes to cinders—and then there was another massive explosion, and a burst of white light that blew all three mages backward.

But even as she felt her body hit the stone, and felt the pain shoot through her body, Cosette felt oddly lighter now. Solyn was down—her blood oath had been fulfilled.

Or so she hoped.

* * *

Vinye clambered to her feet almost as soon as her body had skidded to a halt. Quickly she drank a potion—her Altmer regenerative abilities would not be ready for some time; for now, she would have to rely on what little potions she had left—and simply waiting it out, allowing her body to naturally recharge itself.

The Altmer watched the conflagration warily. Dagoth Solyn was no longer levitating; he'd fallen to the ground now, hard, and the flames that engulfed his robes continued to roar. Cosette's mage-fire was nothing to sniff at, but still Vinye was suspicious. There was no way the son of Dagoth Ur himself could be bested this quickly.

The blinding flames that consumed Solyn suddenly roared like dragons, and a hot wind blew through the chamber. For a moment there was _nothing_ , no sound but for the hissing and bubbling of the lake of magma around them.

Then, just above the noise, Vinye heard _something_ : a low, breathy laugh that seemed to chill the blood in her veins.

As if extinguished by the coldness of the laughter, the flames around Solyn were suddenly dispelled, leaving behind a blackened, tattered robe. Its remnants fluttered silently to the floor, disintegrating into naught but charred threads before they hit the stone.

Vinye did not think too much of it at first, but a small part of her brain remembered that Solyn had worn a robe like that a long time ago—when he had first introduced himself as the estranged son of the late Savos Aren. Perhaps, all things considered, this was a symbolic act on Solyn's part—the last remaining vestige of his disguise discarded, destroyed by fire, to make way for the Chimer's true nature.

But the thought did not last; because what lay behind this disguise was more unexpected—and more terrifying—than she had ever imagined.

It might have looked identical to Dwarven armor—or at least, replicas that she had seen in Cyrodiil—but from there, all similarities ended. Pure Aetherium—polished to a mirror finish, hammered into heavy segments of armor, shining with the essence of all the Daedra and the Divines combined—covered every inch of Solyn save for his head, which looked almost tiny now among the thick plates that protected the Chimer's body. A gleaming circlet of Dwemer metal, and crowned with three flawlessly cut Aetherial gems, rested atop his brow—a crown fit for anyone who fancied himself the ruler of all the world; even the purest of gold and most flawless of diamonds could not come close to the power and majesty imbued inside this crown.

To complete it all, a long, thick staff, topped at its crown with an Aetherial gem the size of her fist, had appeared in Solyn's hand, and he wielded the artifact like a scepter—which, again, it might well have been; Dagoth Solyn looked every inch the ruler of Tamriel right now. Even an Emperor of Tamriel, Vinye thought, would be hard-pressed to look more imposing than Solyn was now.

And the Altmer had certainly been left awestruck by the sight. Looking around her, she saw similar, telltale signs of shock from Malys and Cosette.

"No way … " Malys stammered from off to her left.

The Altmer looked back at Solyn, who might as well be a god now with the power of this Aetherial armor at his command. _How in Stendarr's name can we get through_ this?! Vinye thought.

Solyn laughed that cold laugh again as he stared back at his stunned audience. "Oh, if you could see the looks on your faces right now, _mages of Winterhold_ ," he smirked. "I had this prepared _especially_ for you—I could not think of a better way to repay you for helping me find this wondrous treasure."

"My blades … " Cosette was in total disbelief. "That's how he repelled them. He was wearing that armor under his robes this whole entire time?!"

"Behold the final genius of Lord Voryn himself!" Solyn proclaimed, his booming voice deafening the mages. "His great god of brass, Akulakhan, was naught but a puppet, a steward for the true heir of Voryn's power! I am the last of the Chimer, and the last son of Dagoth! _I AM THE THIRD NUMIDIUM!_ "

 _The Third Numidium_ … Vinye felt her knees quaking, something she hadn't been driven to in a long time. Those three words spoke volumes about the golden, armor-clad elf currently standing across from them—and each scared Vinye more than the last.

Firstly, there was no longer any doubt in her mind that Solyn was delusional. Whether by his self-induced solitude inside this damnable ruin, an exile in the most remote planes in all existence that spanned three thousand years and more—or simply being drunk on the power afforded by this Aetherium armor—Dagoth Solyn had finally crossed the point of no return.

Secondly, Vinye knew the importance of the Heart of Lorkhan to the Second Numidium, and its intent to be used as a limitless source of power for that massive mechanical god. Solyn declaring himself as another Numidium—another god—was as much a boast of confidence as it was a boast of strength. Solyn knew where the Heart of Lorkhan was—or at least he knew enough to find it. How, Vinye could not fathom—she could only hope that part of Solyn's plans had not yet come to fruition.

Finally, in spite of Dagoth Solyn's self-proclaimed apotheosis, his declaration of godhood, Vinye knew this. Divine power or no, Solyn was now an even more dangerous foe than he had been before—if that was even possible. She gazed back at Grimnir, still lying spread-eagled where Solyn had felled him.

It was too great a risk—if the mages were to even survive this, they needed Grimnir alive, and they needed him ready to fight. "Malys," Vinye finally said, "see to the Arch-Mage. If ever we needed his help, we need it _now_."

Malys was only too happy to scurry towards the Dragonborn, healing magic at the ready.

But Solyn had heard her. "Yes, wake the _sleeping dragon_ ," he hissed. "I want him to see this. But before I do … "

The Chimer roared his own war cry—and then slammed an armor-clad foot onto the stone.

There was a clap of thunder, and a blue-white light erupted from the sole of the Aetherium-covered boot. Vinye had no time to throw up a ward before the wall of light hit her with all the force of a rampaging mammoth. She screamed in pain, and forced herself to steel her nerves and muscles to weather the storm. But still she felt herself sliding back from the sheer force of the magic imbued inside Solyn's armor.

Behind and to her right, Cosette—who must have recovered her Forsworn blades some time before Solyn had revealed his armor—was using them as anchors, wedging the sword points deep into cracks in the stone that had been made by the onslaught of Solyn's final, massive construct. She heard nothing from Malys—no cry of pain or anything of the sort—and the Altmer hoped that was enough to persuade her that the vampire, and Grimnir as well, were out of harm's way for the moment.

"You'll need much more than a novice's wards to fend _this_ magic off," boasted Solyn. "Within this armor rests the finest enchantments ever created by the dwarves—magic that Tamriel would go to war for in order to reclaim them, even against each other. But they will not get that chance," he said. "By the time the thought has even crossed their minds, Tamriel will see the Sixth House reborn for all time!"

"Do you think they'll just nod and do your bidding, Solyn?" Vinye shouted back at him. She would freely admit—though not, perhaps, to Solyn—that Tamriel was not in its glory days of old, not even close. Skyrim was still reeling from the Stormcloak rebellion, the Empire was fractured and fading, Morrowind would be rebuilding for centuries no matter what Solyn's actions today … and then there was the Aldmeri Dominion.

The Thalmor were on the back foot as well, Vinye knew—the Stormcloaks' victory had more or less forced their presence out of Skyrim. And Hammerfell had made no mistake about their disdain for the Empire and the Dominion, and they were likely to follow suit as well. Yet the Dominion looked to be the strongest defense against this Chimer that the known world could afford—except for three mages who, for all they'd been through together, were still not much more than novices.

Knowing this made Vinye even more resolute to defeat Solyn today—she knew the Dominion had its own goals in mind for Tamriel. Solyn was at most a threat—and threats meant very little to the Thalmor.

"I believe they will choose to," Solyn responded. "I am not a conqueror, young mage, no matter what the Dragonborn might say in the matter. I have no wish to rule with an iron fist—or perhaps, in this case, an _Aetherial_ fist," he added, holding up one of his armor-clad arms and admiring his reflection in the Aetherium, chuckling a little at his own joke.

But Vinye, in that one moment, had seen something in that armored gauntlet: a flash of Dwemer metal that looked unlike any dwarven gauntlet she'd ever seen in Cyrodiil. Only then did she realize that _Solyn was wearing Wraithguard_ —both the original and the copy! But what was more; he had apparently plated that ancient artifact with Aetherium!

Vinye was beyond confused at this turn of events. _Something was very wrong here_.

"I only wish to save Tamriel and Nirn from their own selves," Solyn went on, oblivious to what Vinye's eyes had seen. "All too often have its nations and tribes been torn apart by war and bloodshed. All I want is an end to that destruction—an end where the peoples of Nirn can be united at last."

"I doubt you're the only one," Vinye admitted, managing to put aside her consternation for another time. "But those people will never accept House Dagoth. You heard Malys. The world has moved on from those ancient times, Solyn. You had three thousand years to do the same—but instead, you wasted all that time on fulfilling your dead father's wishes."

Solyn gave a guttural roar of rage—not even bothering to make a more coherent reply than that—and stamped down again. This time, however, Vinye and Cosette were ready for him. Each mage raised both their hands, and spread them out to form the strongest ward they could. The ground shook as another wave of energy radiated outwards from Solyn's boot, but this time it passed over the two mages with little ill effect.

Yet the question remained—how to exploit that armor?

Solyn, meanwhile, brandished his staff at the mages, and struck the floor with the Aetherial gem on its crown. There was a burst of blue-white light, a cacophony of metal-on-metal—and an Aetherial centurion emerged from the portal, twelve feet tall, eyes already blazing with lightning.

Cosette was only just able to sprint over and drag Malys and Grimnir to safety before the lightning-gaze of the centurion vaporized the floor where she'd been mere seconds ago. Vinye was close behind her; the Altmer had been slightly less unlucky, and was now patting at the singed hem of her robes.

Suddenly, Vinye forgot that she was now in mortal peril. "Cosette," she suddenly spoke up, as an idea began to take root in her mind, "tell me everything you can about this 'perfect defense' you say your clan could pull off. How it works, how much it takes to do it—and how quickly you can pull it off."

"It's a drain," Cosette replied. "It works like a drain, only on magicka instead of water. But the thing is, it works on all kinds of magicka—even latent magicka from nature all around me that hasn't been used as a medium for a spell—and I can use that collected magic as if it was my own."

"What about enchantments?" Vinye asked her. "Does this defense drain _enchantments_ as well?"

Cosette was silent for a long moment as she mulled Vinye's question over. Then her face split in an evil grin as she finally understood—and as unsettled as she might have been by that smile on any other day, Vinye knew that she had her answer to her question.

"Good. I need you to get as close to Solyn as you can. Shouldn't be a problem for you," Vinye told her, glancing at the Breton's Forsworn blades.

"What about that centurion?" Cosette asked—just as a lightning blast from the _animunculus_ in question exploded just mere feet behind her.

Vinye tipped a wink at her. "Lightning magic, remember?" she smirked. "Leave it to me."

And without wasting any more time, Vinye conjured a storm atronach; it burst from the violet flames of Oblivion like a juggernaut, straight for the centurion. The mechanical monster blasted an entire thunderstorm's worth of lightning at the daedra, but to no avail.

The atronach raised a fist, and connected with the centurion courtesy of a devastating right hook that would have felled the Gildergreen of Whiterun. The automaton staggered back from the force of the impact, but only a little, and Vinye knew she could not waste any more time.

"Go!" she yelled at Cosette. "Before he decides to summon backup!"

The Breton didn't need telling twice. She clenched her jaw, and Vinye saw the air begin to shimmer and distort around her, just as it had in that fight against the wispmother, which seemed so very long ago now in light of all they'd been through since them. Then, she felt an odd pulling sensation against her body—it was as if the magicka inside her was trying to claw its way out of her.

Then Cosette had sprinted off, and the sensation had disappeared as quickly as it had come, and Vinye peered out from behind the staircase again to observe the fight. But before that could commence, there was one last thing she had to do—and her hope was that even if it didn't level the playing field, Cosette would finish the job.

She looked towards her atronach, and sent a single, final command to the daedra. One second later, the storm atronach blew itself up with a BANG that shook the cavern, and Vinye was pleased to see that the force of the impact had destabilized the centurion completely. The hips of the monster were sparking and belching steam, hopelessly beyond repair, and the _animunculus_ crashed to the floor.

All right, Cosette, she thought. Let's see what you can do now.

She watched the distortion around the Breton grow larger and larger as Cosette advanced on Solyn, swords drawn. If Vinye's understanding of the Ionsaithe clan's defense was correct, then the Altmer could not attack Solyn as long as that ward was in effect; otherwise her lightning would just get sucked in with everything else. Cosette would be that much stronger, yes, but Vinye would be that much weaker. Best to sit this one out and observe from a distance, she thought.

She spared a moment to glance back in Malys' direction; the vampire was still doing her best to patch up Grimnir. "How is he?" Vinye asked, desperate for an answer.

"He's alive," answered the vampire, and the Altmer felt herself breathe a sigh of relief. "But it isn't just a question of healing his wounds. He's got more internal injuries than anything—nearly suffocated from all that ash Solyn hit him with, to say nothing of the burns. It's slow work, but he is healing," said Malys. "The next few minutes will tell how healed he is—though I doubt he'll be running from one hold to the next on foot for the foreseeable future."

There was a roar of anger from where Cosette was fighting against Solyn—it sounded as though the Chimer had just found out the abilities of the Ionsaithe.

"Cosette's doing what she can to hold off Solyn," Vinye told her. "Do what you can to get the Arch-Mage back."

Malys nodded, but Vinye had already turned back to observe Cosette's continued onslaught.

Solyn was furious—his armor seemed to have lost a little bit of its luster, and Vinye thought she spotted a few dings in the cuirass from where Cosette had been striking at him. But the Breton was in bad shape herself; she looked as if she had a thousand stitches tearing into her body. That clan ability of hers had to have come with some kind of price, Vinye guessed—it must really tax her body, she thought, to have to maintain this for as long as she could.

Hopefully, however, she had done enough to make a difference in the fight.

Vinye deliberately overcharged a lightning bolt, and aimed it for one of the gaps in Solyn's armor—between the otherwise impregnable plates of Aetherium appeared to be just normal mail.

The Altmer knew she had to be quick—but this was the very reason why she preferred lightning over any other school of destruction: simply because there was nothing quicker than lightning.

Her bolt flew straight as an arrow, and Solyn roared in pain as the lightning struck the mailed crook of his right elbow, the one that had been holding the Aetherial staff. The shocks of the lightning traveled throughout his body—for Vinye had not used an ordinary jolt of electricity; no, this was more akin to the bolt she had used to disrupt that giant's movements. It was slightly less powerful— _slightly_ ; Solyn was no giant, but neither was he a pushover. Vinye did not want to take chances with him.

She was glad she hadn't; Solyn was now writhing on the floor, no doubt beside himself with confusion as he realized that his arms had now become his legs, and vice versa—or perhaps something even more complicated. But the effects were only temporary—and a wizard as powerful as Dagoth Solyn would be back on his feet any moment now. They had to act fast.

Cosette, Vinye was thankful to see, needed no further encouragement. She wasted no time in charging for the Chimer, eyes blazing and swords singing in the superheated air—while at the same time, Vinye prepared another salvo of lightning. They would hit Solyn in a two-pronged attack—armor weakened, body out of commission.

 _Let's see the likes of House Dagoth survive_ this! Vinye thought recklessly—and fired.

"Not this time!" Solyn boomed. Suddenly, there was a brief burst of blue light, and the Chimer had disappeared into thin air—no, he hadn't Vinye quickly corrected herself; he was still there, but his body had turned translucent and ghostly, not unlike the effects of that Shout Grimnir had used before.

Cosette howled in rage as the Chimer sprang to his feet, and now the mages were back at square one. The Culler hurled a fireball, more out of frustration than strategy, and Solyn did not revert back to his normal solid form until just after the fiery missile passed through where his heart would be—

—and hit his Aetherium Forge.

Something shrieked within the massive construct of metal, and a number of pipes burst, hurling shards of Dwemer metal and clouds of steam every which way. Vinye could tell no one had seen this coming—especially not Cosette, who was looking at the destruction she'd caused with a mixture of triumph, confusion … and a growing sense that she needed to run.

"No!" cried Solyn, forgetting the mages completely, whirling upon his creation as it continued to belch steam. "You've _ruined_ it! Do you have any idea how long it took me to construct this replica?!"

"Longer than you've got left to live, Solyn," Cosette shot back, having regained some of her old defiance and swagger.

Solyn's replica Forge suddenly made a different noise now—one that had a much different and most unexpected effect on the Chimer: _satisfaction_. "Ahh, it matters not," he said, sighing to himself—completely at odds with the raving lunatic he'd been not minutes ago. For a moment, Vinye thought he'd become Solyn Aren again, the estranged son of a deceased Arch-Mage who'd decided to abandon his research out of reverence.

But the illusion did not last. "It's too late for you now," Solyn told them.

"Too late for what?"

Vinye turned around so quickly she heard a _crack_ in her neck.

Grimnir Torn-Skull was limping towards them, Malys just ahead of him. The Arch-Mage's voice sounded a little scratchy still, Vinye thought, as if Malys hadn't fully been able to heal his internal wounds. But none of that mattered now.

He was here.

He was _alive_.

"Too late for what, Solyn?" Grimnir repeated, bringing the staff of Magnus to bear on the Chimer.

"For my installation as the Third Numidium," Solyn declared, "and the undisputed ruler of this world. Behold!"

The Forge belched a final cloud of steam, and there was a whirring noise from somewhere inside the massive contraption. Solyn was obscured completely—but he could be seen bending down to pick up a series of objects from the Forge.

Now the steam was beginning to clear, and Vinye felt a sudden sense of foreboding.

"Behold," Solyn said once more, "the culmination of my history. The Chimer and the Dwemer stand united today—and under their united power, Nirn will be at peace at last."

The steam was dispelled at that moment … and Vinye felt a sense of terror like none she had ever felt before when she saw just _what_ the Chimer was holding in his hands.

* * *

At this point, Mistress Malys was used to seeing the strange and the unbelievable. She was used to believing it, too—especially since her eyes were far superior to the eyes of a living man. They could see what others could not, and sometimes even at greater distances than normal eyes could make out.

But this time, Mistress Malys simply could not believe what she was seeing.

She stared, amazed beyond belief. The tower shield, Spellbreaker, looked more or less identical to what Malys remembered in Her memories, composed of elegant, flowing lines and geometric curves that were so like the Dwemer—and yet so _unlike_ them as well. But there was one glaring difference: the crystal blade of Keening had been fused into the center of the outward-curving shield.

Malys was also quick to recognize the spiky edges of Volendrung in Solyn's other hand, but from there, any similarities ended. What Solyn held now was more akin to a double-ended flail: a pair of hammers—one whose maul was covered all over with spikes that burned with otherworldly green fire, while the other was as smooth, deceptively sturdy and precisely designed as only Sunder could be. Linking them together was a thick length of greenish-brown chain, which was itself covered with so many sharp points and ridges that Malys instinctively knew it had come from Volendrung as well—possibly the handle of the ebony hammer.

 _He altered the Tools and the Daedric artifacts?_ She thought in shock. _And he_ combined _them? Is he insane?!_

She wasn't the only one terrified by this most unexpected of sights. Cosette and Vinye were staring wild-eyed at the unbelievable— _unthinkable_ —sight. The high elf's mouth was moving, but no words were coming out, and blood was flowing from Cosette's lip because she was biting into it so deeply. Even Grimnir, who up to this point had been ever the unshakable rock on the edge of the raging ocean, looked—and sounded—scared out of his wits.

"Solyn," the mask breathed, "what have you _done?!_ "

"I have _created_ ," answered the Chimer. "To find the Heart of Lorkhan and bring it back to Mundus takes an extraordinary amount of power, Dragonborn—more than even that of the tools of both Kagrenac and the Daedra can muster … at least, on their own. But by combining them, they share their power now, and their potential has been compounded beyond all measure! With these Tools—I will remake the world!

"Do you understand, now, Dragonborn, why I look down upon you for what you are?" Solyn shouted. "You don't have what it takes to create a new world! You can only conquer, and what you cannot conquer, you would instead _destroy!_ You can strike me down now—you can destroy me as you would any other enemy. You slay all the dragons in the world if you wish, and steal all their power. You can become the first in a new line of Emperors over all Tamriel that will never be broken! But what do you know of _creation_ , Dragonborn?"

Grimnir said nothing.

"I thought not," spat Solyn. "That is why you will never become a god—why you will never become like _me_. That is why—no matter what you do here today—I have already _won_."

"I would rather be dead than a heretic!" interrupted Grimnir. Malys heard the roughness in his voice; Grimnir's throat had not been fully healed, and She did not suspect it ever would be, but the Dragonborn had proved to be full of surprises before. "That is all you have accomplished here, Solyn. It was enough that you would believe yourself equal to the gods themselves, simply because of what you have created with the hands _they_ gave you. But now you would use your powers of creation to defile the artifacts of the Daedra?!"

"Defiling?" Solyn scoffed. "I have done no such thing! The tools of the Daedra are merely that—bestowed upon the world to be used as their wielders would see fit. Whatever form their vessels may take—Spellbreaker, Volendrung, or the Oghma Infinium of legend—is insignificant compared to the power imbued inside them. All I have done is give them a new form with which to exercise their power. And with this power, the Heart of Lorkhan will finally be wrenched back into Mundus, and my father's plans will finally succeed."

If it had not been evident to Her before, Mistress Malys now knew that Dagoth Solyn was indeed completely insane. One did not simply treat a Daedric artifact as a simple means to an end. And this was coming from the last Chimer, of all people—the last of a race who were the very _antithesis_ of the secular Dwemer, who shunned the Aedra and the Daedra in favor of logic and reason!

"Damn it, Solyn, think about what you are doing!" Grimnir called out.

"I already have," Solyn replied dismissively. "And do you know what else I believe, Dragonborn? I think you are simply too ignorant of the world around you that you can never see the infinite realms of possibility that lie before you. You fear creation and innovation, because you see it as a _threat_ to your continued existence … and because it is a threat, you attempt to destroy it at all costs. You _sicken_ me."

He paused, and then slowly drew back. "Perhaps … yes," he said. "I think a few thousand years in the Outer Realms ought to help change your misguided views for the better!"

Malys almost didn't see him move, even with Her vampiric eyesight. One moment Solyn was standing there, the next he was a blur, blasting a huge column of blue-white fire at Grimnir. But Grimnir, incredibly, was even quicker; he swung his staff with a mighty blow, deflecting the flames harmlessly off into the molten lake around them. The flames consumed everything in their path: rock, Dwarven machinery—even the magma they had been rebounded into—and left behind _nothing_ , not even dust or ash. They left a gaping hole in the boiling, flaming ooze that took several long moments to close up, but Malys had seen how perfectly smooth the semi-solid walls of that tunnel had been for that one period of time, and shuddered at the potency of such a spell.

"Why do you not want to kill me, Solyn?" Grimnir goaded him, brandishing his staff in one hand and a silver ward in the other. "Do you _really_ think yourself a god—do you really lord yourself over such wanton brutality?"

" _I will not be lowered to the likes of you!_ " Solyn screamed back at him, firing another blast of sapphire fire that Grimnir again redirected into the lava. "I am not some mere _destroyer!_ "

"There is more than one way to destroy, Solyn," said Grimnir. He fired a beam of magic from his staff, but Solyn had readied his own ward, nullifying the attack with little trouble at all. "I can freely admit that merely destroying you would give me no more pleasure than destroying my own home."

Solyn laughed derisively at this. "Of course it would!" he crowed, winding up to conjure yet more azure-colored fire. "That's what you were _meant_ to do, isn't it? You were prophesied to destroy everything that stood in your way, were you not?"

"No, Solyn," Grimnir said evenly. "That destroyer was Alduin—the World-Eater, forever fated to destroy and reshape the world in an endless cycle. I was the one fated to stop him, and stop him I did, four years ago. He will not return in this life."

The Chimer laughed again as he launched more mage-fire at Grimnir. "Hah! Then you're a much bigger fool than I could have imagined," he sneered. "I know that prophecy, and know it well. There are others, too, who know more of this prophecy than you do, Dragonborn!"

Grimnir grunted as he deflected Solyn's attacks, one after another, but with much less care about his surroundings; Malys had to duck to avoid one missile, only just feeling the blast of surprisingly cold air rush across Her cheek.

"What are you trying to tell me, Solyn?!" bellowed the Arch-Mage.

"Did it ever occur to you," said the Chimer, "that the Dragonborn was part of that endless cycle as well—that he and Alduin were merely two sides of the same septim?"

He lowered his armored hands, and drew himself up to his full height, a thin smile stretching across his golden face. "Did it ever cross your mind that Alduin would not only return, but be _reborn_ —through no less a being than the Dragonborn himself?"

It was like all the air in the cave had suddenly disappeared. Time seemed to stop as Vinye and Cosette traded looks of astonishment and horror.

Malys was no less stunned. _What did he just say?!_

But even as all three mages looked to Grimnir, desperate for an explanation, She felt a growing sense of alarm. The Arch-Mage was standing stock-still now, the Staff of Magnus threatening to fall from his fingertips. Solyn's words had upset the Arch-Mage immensely, She could tell—She imagined that under that black mask, Grimnir's face must be white as a sheet right now, and beginning to run with sweat.

"Nothing to say, Dragonborn?" chided Solyn, as if he was addressing a schoolboy who'd just told him off as nothing but a big bully. "Deep down, you know I'm right, don't you? I can see it in your eyes—it's already begun. You've already taken the first steps towards the inevitable end."

Malys' head was spinning. This was all wrong—it had to be horribly, horribly wrong. _Grimnir couldn't possibly be Alduin!_

_…_ _Could he?_

"Don't listen to him, Arch-Mage!" She shouted, more for Her own benefit than his. "He's trying to get inside your head!" Yes, that was it, She was sure—mind games were a classic tactic in combat, whether by the spell or the sword. And Solyn was doing his damnedest to wear Grimnir down psychologically, so he could strike when the time was right!

But even as the words had left Her mouth, Malys felt Her certainty fading. She had not been there to see the return of Alduin, nor had She been awake to bear witness to his destruction; for all that time, She had rested in that remote cave, only just entering the final stages of Her transformation into the vampire She was today.

"I have seen you laid bare before me, Dragonborn," hissed Solyn. "I know what lurks inside your mind—your most private fears ... your most terrifying of dreams ... just admit it, Dragonborn," the golden elf scoffed. "You're going to destroy the world. You don't have a choice in the matter, and you won't have the Elder Scrolls to save you this time.

"So what will you do? Are you going to accept your fate?" Solyn asked, the Chimer's words sharp and hard as nails. "Will you condemn this world to its destruction?"

Grimnir only needed three words to reply.

" _Fus … Ro DAH!_ "

Solyn only barely raised a ward in time to deflect Grimnir's Shout. But the _force_ of the magic behind Grimnir's words was such that Solyn's ward was shattered completely. The Chimer was knocked off _balance_ by the magical blast, and _pushed_ several feet back towards his forge—

Malys paused.

_Force. Balance. Push._

She could not explain why those three words had suddenly jumped out to her. Something wasn't right about that.

Solyn, meanwhile, had managed to regain his footing, and was breathing heavily. He looked angry now—but it was a resigned sort of anger … the anger of a man who would fight until the bitter end. "So that's your decision, is it?" he rasped between breaths. "You truly don't care about what you are, do you?"

"Let me just make one thing clear, Solyn," Grimnir said to him, his voice echoing unnaturally around the molten lake. "I like living in this world—and I would do everything in my power to keep it from ending."

"Even if it meant fulfilling that prophecy?" Solyn snarled. "Even if it meant ending your _life?!_ "

Grimnir was silent for a moment. "Yes," he finally said. "I cannot call myself the hero in good faith, Solyn—not now. Not here. If there ever was a hero to be found today, it's these three mages."

Malys felt a sudden rush of affection for Grimnir. Her insides felt uncharacteristically warm inside as she stared at the Arch-Mage with newfound appreciation.

"But neither am I the villain," Grimnir went on. "When the bards of Skyrim sing of this hour in the days and months, and perhaps even the years to come, they will not sing of the misdeeds of the Dragonborn. They will sing of the folly of House Dagoth—of the last member of a House too stubborn to know when to give up and die."

Solyn narrowed his eyes and growled—he looked angrier than Malys had ever seen him. "We will see," he hissed, "about _that!_ "

The Chimer's hands erupted in cold fire with a thunderous roar, and Malys could feel the spell coming, feel it building in Solyn's fingers—more arcane fire than he'd yet conjured, compressed into one devastating missile—

" _Fus … Ro DAH!_ " Grimnir roared, and then quite a few things happened at once.

First, as the blue wave of the Shout hurtled towards Solyn, the wizard's fingers twitched imperceptibly, for only a split second—barely enough time for Malys to see what he'd done. The fire that he'd been concentrating abruptly disappeared, and was replaced with more clouds of ash.

Malys knew what was going to happen an instant before it did—but then, in that one infinitesimal moment, time seemed to falter in its step. Suddenly, something hissed in Her insides, and She felt herself stumble over from the _force_ of the pain—

 _Force_.

There it was again.

A sudden thought sprang into Malys' mind, but She dismissed it almost immediately. That wasn't possible—it couldn't be. Was she truly hearing what Grimnir was …

" ** _FUS!_** "

The warmth inside Her had suddenly flared, hotter and brighter than any fire She had ever felt before. It felt like She was being roasted from the inside out. She hadn't meant to scream—but the scream had come, and—

What happened immediately after that transfixed everyone.

As the ash clouds that constituted Solyn's paralysis spell reached out to envelop the Arch-Mage, a sapphire blast of magic suddenly expelled itself from Malys' open mouth, still screaming in pain from the intensity of the heat inside Her. It was a brief gust of wind, virtually insignificant in comparison with the miniature gales that Grimnir was capable of.

But it was enough.

An instant before the paralysis spell would have struck, the wave of magic hit a completely unprepared Grimnir, forcing him off his feet and onto the stone floor, and the clouds of ash sailed barely inches over his head, paralyzing nothing but thin air.

Dagoth Solyn whirled around at Malys, the Arch-Mage entirely forgotten. "What is this?!" the Chimer demanded.

Vinye and Cosette were no less confused. None of them seemed to understand what was going on, what had just happened in the span of a paltry few seconds. But no one was more perplexed at what Malys had just done than Malys Herself—because Her mind had finally just now caught up with the rest of Her, and She had suddenly realized that that had been _Herself_ who had cried out, who had spoken that one word.

 _Force_.

Malys did not know how that knowledge had come to her, but that was the last thing on her mind right now.

Because somehow—incredibly, against all logic and reason—She had just Shouted.

* * *

Even as he stumbled from the force of the unexpected Shout, Grimnir could not believe what he'd just heard.

The _Thu'um_ was not a subject to be learned so easily, he knew. The Greybeards, Paarthurnax most of all, were not straightforward teachers, instead allowing the prospective students of the Way of the Voice to draw their own conclusions on each Word, meditating on them for long periods of time—sometimes even years—to discern their multiple meanings.

Yes—the dragons were no more straightforward in their speech and their manners than the Greybeards were in their methods; one word of their language could have a dozen different meanings. For Grimnir, it was far easier to learn these Words and what they could mean, and far easier to meditate on them as well, owing to the dragon's soul he possessed. Yet even he had had to work to where he had made it today—the knowledge of the dragons was not so easily assimilated, and even devouring their souls was oftentimes not enough.

Which only made the Arch-Mage of Winterhold all the more confused as to what had just happened.

_How in Akatosh' name did she do that?!_

He had heard the Word of Power— _Fus_ , the first such Word of the dragon language he had ever learned in his life—and he had seen the telltale explosion of blue energy that it heralded. But he still could not believe that he had not been responsible for of those things.

_How did she do that?_

His conversation with Solyn had been forgotten—though not completely; there would be time to dwell on his words later. For now, every last ounce of Grimnir's attention was focused on the Dunmer with the split face in front of him. Both halves of Malys' face radiated utter confusion—genuine, too, Grimnir knew. There was no deception in that face; Malys knew little more than he did in this particular matter.

_Then how did she do it?_

A thought suddenly occurred to Grimnir—something as extraordinary as it was unbelievable. Had Malys been keeping this from him the whole time she'd been a student at Winterhold? The odds on that must have been very long indeed, he mused—even J'zargo wouldn't have dared to make a bet on odds like this.

And it almost certainly wasn't true, either. Those mages, Vinye and Cosette, had been with her the whole time as well. If she had demonstrated this power before, they would have told him long before now—voluntarily or otherwise; Grimnir was experienced enough to know when people were withholding secrets from him.

If Malys truly did not know that she had this power—and that neither of her companions did, either—then that left only one logical solution. And Grimnir was not happy about it.

But no other answer made more sense.

"Well, now," purred a voice, and Grimnir tensed—he'd almost forgotten Dagoth Solyn was right there, and he cursed himself for letting him be so distracted. Luckily for them all, the Chimer had been just as diverted as the rest of them—rightly so, in his defense—and so no one had cause to fear any reprisal. Yet.

"You are just full of surprises at Winterhold, aren't you?" Solyn chuckled coldly. Grimnir noticed he'd wrapped Sunder-and-Volendrung around his right arm, holding the larger end of the flail in that hand, while Spellbreaker-and-Keening was grasped tightly in his left hand.

Then Solyn moved quicker than he ever had before, and lashed out with the flail.

The spiked edges of Volendrung struck the stone floor with a sound like a massive drum, and a blast of air burst forth from the point of impact. The molten lake around them receded into a massive wave, which vexed Grimnir; he knew the cavern was not infinite. Sooner or later, that lava would be coming back to whence it came, and at a greater speed as well, he thought.

Which meant that this entire place was about to be covered in molten rock.

" _Tiid … Klo UL!_ " Grimnir barked, and the world around him slowed almost to a crawl. It would not be for long—but it would be for long enough. Therefore, he didn't waste any time in creating a barrier that soon encircled the length, width and breadth of the entire platform. He hoped it would be enough to hold it until the surge of lava had subsided.

At that moment, the effects of his Shout wore off, and time resumed its normal pace—and Solyn was already winding up for another strike.

" _FUS!_ " Grimnir bellowed—but Solyn was already ready for him. He'd brought his shield—Spellbreaker-and-Keening—to bear at the exact moment Grimnir had drawn back to Shout. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have meant much, but the Spellbreaker—as Grimnir could already see—was generating a ward from the orb in the center, where rested Keening. And there was more …

 _What's this?_ Grimnir thought—suddenly a strange feeling had taken over his body. It was almost as if he was being drained of all the energy inside him!

Then he realized—Keening! Keening had the power to take away its wielder's life force without proper protection, he understood. Solyn must have reactivated its enchantments somehow, he surmised. But he was wearing Wraithguard, which rendered him immune to that life-threatening effect—and Spellbreaker must somehow be redirecting that effect on him!

Grimnir couldn't move—he couldn't even Shout. And he could only barely hear Solyn gloating to him, as he felt himself becoming gradually weaker and weaker.

"You will be my first victory, Dragonborn," Solyn whispered malevolently. "The world will learn of your defeat at my hands—but I will not kill you. I will use these Tools of mine on you, and add your essence to that of the Heart of Lorkhan, where it will remain for all eternity … "

Grimnir could not hear anything more now. Solyn was nothing more than a dark shape now, and his vision was beginning to go gray.

 _So this is how it all ends_ , he thought, apropos of nothing. _Not as bad as I thought it would be, all things considered._

There wasn't any pain … he'd be with old Tolfdir soon enough …

But was he really dying? Instead of becoming weaker, Grimnir felt like he was becoming _stronger_. He shook his head, trying to get Solyn back into focus, beginning to feel a little confused about what was going on, and then he realized that the dark shape in front of him _wasn't_ Solyn at all—

He blinked.

Malys Aryon was standing there, directly between him and Solyn—and Spellbreaker-and-Keening. Her right hand was thrust directly back at him, shining with restoration magic, healing him. But that wasn't what surprised Grimnir; it was that Solyn was training his shield on _Malys_ this time—and Malys was fighting back with magic that Grimnir had never seen before.

Well, that was to say, he _had_ —just not in such a manner. It was a red wave of magic, almost identical in function, if not in form, to the enchantment built into Solyn's left-hand artifact. And right now, Malys was using that magic to lock Solyn in a metaphysical tug-of-war. Each was counteracting the other's draining spell, while Malys was using the magic she gained as a result to heal Grimnir, and bring him back to full strength.

 _Master Anglinius was right after all about this mage, it would seem_ , thought the Arch-Mage. _I owe him an apology_.

Malys, meanwhile, was looking at him over her shoulder. "I can't hold on much longer!" she hollered. "Take him out! _Now!_ "

This time, Grimnir did not hesitate. "Get down!" he yelled at Malys—he had a special Shout in store for Solyn, and he did not want Malys to take any more punishment than she already had.

He inhaled air, exhaled Thu'um, and Shouted.

_"_ _Kren … Qah GOL!"_

There was a noise like a thousand horsewhips, all cracking at the same time, and Solyn roared in sudden pain as he toppled to the ground. The Aetherium armor, still gleaming flawlessly despite all the fire and soot in the air, was shattered into a thousand pieces under the strength of Grimnir's Shout and the force with which Solyn hit the floor, hurtling into the lava, never to be seen again.

Grimnir had not meant to do that. The Shout he had just used—which the Greybeards had named Stuhn's Might—was not unlike his Unrelenting Force. But where that Shout pushed away his foes as if by the hand of a god,Stuhn's Might used that hand to _twist_ , to tear asunder everything in its path that didn't have sufficient protection. He'd only been aiming to rough Solyn up, to unseat him for the final _coup de grace_.

But as he looked at Solyn, Grimnir realized he'd done more than just that.

The Chimer, incredibly, was still alive—but Grimnir almost pitied him; he'd never seen someone who'd looked so powerful mere moments ago look so … well, _pitiful_. Every single bone in Solyn's body looked as though it had been ripped to shreds: his arms and legs, even his fingers, were spread out at odd angles, and Grimnir imagined that Solyn's back looked like a twisted piece of dough. There was no sign of blood loss.

But Solyn, armor and all, had been destroyed.

It almost reminded Grimnir of the start to an ancient proverb old Tolfdir had told him, when he'd first arrived at Winterhold all those years ago. _For want of a flesh spell, the mage was lost_. Solyn had put too much faith into his Aetherium armor when he'd faced the mages down—but Grimnir could not take credit for this. Neither one could have possibly imagined that one simple Shout could have done that to some of the most dangerous artifacts the Arch-Mage had ever seen.

But Grimnir paused. This wasn't the first time he'd seen his Shouts have an unexpected effect on Aetherium—he remembered the cavern before the Reliquary, when that ballista had fired a bolt made from it right at him. He had deflected the bolt, but then the bolt had exploded. At first, Grimnir had thought that bolt might have had an explosive payload, or had been enchanted; he'd had enough experience in Dwarven ruins to not put either of those options past the Dwemer. But now, as the Chimer's words from before drifted into his mind, he could see that the reason for what had happened on both occasions was something completely different.

So that was what he'd meant by "harmonically volatile," Grimnir thought, as he turned away from the horrible sight.

A crunching sound suddenly snapped Grimnir back to reality, and he whirled around to face Solyn once more.

_Impossible …_

Dagoth Solyn's malformed hand was glowing with restoration magic, and the constant crunching and grinding was coming from the Chimer's bones mending back together. Then there was a gurgling noise, and Grimnir realized Solyn was speaking to him.

"Heh … eh," whispered the elf. The glow in his golden eyes had faded—but they were getting brighter. "If I hadn't … had that … shield, I might … well be dead. You … truly are … destroyer, Dragonborn."

The Chimer was beginning to stir.

Grimnir shook his head. "It's over, Solyn," he said simply. "We have nothing left to say to each other now. We have won; you have lost.

"I won't kill you," Grimnir went on, as he felt the mages beginning to stare at him. "I have no desire to kill you. But I have no desire to help you, either. My mages and I will leave this place, and seal it forevermore. You will remain here, for as long as your natural life allows you. The horrors you have sought to resurrect will not be repeated. Skyrim—and Tamriel—does not wish to see them again."

And with that, Grimnir turned on his heel. "Let's go," he told the other three mages. "We must return to Winterhold and—"

Grimnir barely blocked the blast of blue fire at the last possible second before it would have incinerated him.

He whirled around to face Dagoth Solyn—who was still very much in a bad way, but he was standing up, clad in nothing but tattered mail and shredded robes, and he was angrier than Grimnir had ever seen him.

"You would leave me buried here?" rumbled the Chimer. "You would shut me away from the world?! _Very well!_ "

Solyn was lifted off the ground by his magic, soaring higher than ever, looking down upon them with his golden eyes. "Then I will grant your wish, Dragonborn!"

He roared in exertion, and Grimnir heard the ceiling of the cavern begin to crack—Solyn was being deadly serious about following through on his threat.

Dagoth Solyn was frothing at the mouth. " _DIE, DRAGONBORN, DIE!_ " screeched the last of the Chimer.

Grimnir closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable—

And nothing happened.

The cracks in the ceiling were still there, Grimnir saw, but there did not appear to be any danger of a cave-in. He exhaled—they had been spared, for now.

But more to the point, what had made Solyn decide to spare them?

" ** _A man does not choose his weapon_** ," rumbled a deafening voice all of a sudden, seemingly from out of thin air, and without any sort of preamble. Grimnir did not know whom it belonged to—and neither, apparently, did Solyn.

"Who's there?" cried the Chimer. It was hard to tell from this distance—but Grimnir could have sworn that the pupils of the elf's eyes had contracted with sudden fear.

The steam and haze around the mages shifted suddenly, and Solyn was forced down without warning, hitting the stone platform with a sickening _crunch_ that sounded like all of his recently healed bone once again breaking from the force of the impact. The Chimer screamed in pain.

And now, something was striding out of the haze—a vague _something_ , twice as tall as any giant, and at least five times as broad. The claymore it wielded in one hand would have ripped Dragonsreach in half with a single blow.

He was not alone—to Grimnir's other side, something else could be seen in the mist, a sinuous, inhuman beast, slender and venomous like a snake, but with four legs and a head like a dragon.

"What's going on here?" Vinye cried out.

" _It is the weapon, in the end, who chooses the man,_ " hissed the serpentine vision.

"It can't be … " Cosette was trembling at the sight.

Both the forms were encircling Solyn, now. The broken elf stared up at the apparitions with something that resembled acidic fury, confusion, desperation … and a cold terror.

 ** _"_** ** _You!"_** bellowed the apparitions. **_"You have shown more folly in your ways than the Chimer and the Dwemer! You would dare unite the tools of our champions with the godless dwarves?"_**

Solyn leapt to his feet, momentarily surprising everyone. "Enough of these mind games, Dragonborn!" he shouted. "I will show you the power of a god, made manifest in my flesh!"

 _Mind games?_ Grimnir wondered. Those two specters were as new to him as everyone else.

The Chimer hefted his two artifacts aloft with a wordless bellow of rage, and the two artifacts began to glow.

But the enormous specters alongside him were beginning to glow as well, and Grimnir was suddenly aware that something was about to happen—and that if he didn't act in time …

"WARDS!" he bellowed at the mages. "Wards, all of you— _now!_ "

They obeyed without a moment's hesitation. But suddenly, the surge of light came to a head, and suddenly Solyn's mighty roar turned into a shriek of pain. The light flared, and Grimnir was forced to shield his eyes from the sheer brightness of it all.

But Solyn's next scream brought Grimnir's hand down—and he stared, appalled beyond belief, at what was happening to the Chimer.

The golden elf was being methodically disintegrated: first his arms, then his legs, slowly, he was being turned into ash from the inside out. But it was more than that, Grimnir realized; something was building up inside him—a surge of energy that was not the Chimer's doing—and certainly not under his control.

But before Grimnir could prepare accordingly, that energy suddenly exploded outwards, in a burst of bluish-white fire. Solyn had time for just one final scream of agony before the inferno consumed him, leaving nothing behind but an endless black abyss.

And that abyss was quickly spreading.

Grimnir knew he had no time to do anything else; he poured every last ounce of his magicka into his ward, and hoped to all the Divines that the other mages had the foresight to do the same thing. He felt a rush of freezing air and shrieking wind, the void beyond was threatening to swallow him whole—

And then, as quickly as it had appeared, it had vanished, and Grimnir slowly became aware of his surroundings once more. The molten rock around him bubbed and hissed, just as it always had since time began. He was still in front of the replicated Aetherium Forge—but its controller and creator was nowhere to be seen.

Dagoth Solyn—the last Chimer, and the last of the cursed Sixth House of Morrowind—was gone.

Only then did Grimnir realize that Vinye, Cosette, and Malys had vanished.

He was alone.

_They were all gone._


	23. XXII

XXII

Grimnir could not believe it.

One moment, Dagoth Solyn had been right in front of him, consumed by bluish-white flames and infinite darkness. The three novices had stood in between the two, wards at the ready to fend off the expanding wave of magic. And then ... everything had simply vanished. The fire, Solyn, the mages—they were all _gone_. Only the artifacts he had created yet remained, sitting innocently in the exact spot of the pavilion where the Chimer had vanished.

But they couldn't be gone.

Grimnir stood there, refusing to believe it. His eyes roved over the smooth stone platform, taking in the flawlessness of the stone. It was almost too flawless, he thought, considering what had just happened, only the constant ash falls generated from the molten lake around them prevented it from becoming totally smooth. There was absolutely no trace that anyone else besides Grimnir had ever existed in this space.

They _couldn't_ be gone.

No—Grimnir was sure of this. There would have to be _some_ trace of their disappearance— _some_ kind of debris, no matter how big or small. But there wasn't anything—not even a trace of dust. He ran his finger along the platform, just to be sure: nothing.

There were laws against this, the Arch-Mage knew—nothing could ever be completely created or destroyed, but only converted from one form to another. Water did not disappear when it was boiled beneath the flame, only turned into steam. In the same manner, atronachs did not suddenly appear out of thin air—they were transported through the liminal barrier between Mundus and Oblivion—

Grimnir stopped in his tracks. _Could it really be that simple?_

Immediately, he stiffened, and was alert—this was not the time to grieve, nor the time to lick wounds and recover. The Dragonborn raised his hands, and reached out with his magicka, preparing the best scrying spell he was capable of. If he was right … if he was lucky, _very_ lucky … there would have to be some kind of sign …

* * *

Cosette's entire world was pain.

But pain meant she was still alive—if only for the moment. She gave a long, low grunt of pain; with great effort, she willed herself to move a muscle—any muscle—and her eyes forced themselves open as if they weighed a ton.

She was lying on what looked like—and felt like—a dried riverbed. The ground beneath the Breton was cracked from untold years of drought, and just looking at it made Cosette thirsty.

The land around them was entirely barren—no trees, no shrubs, not even grass. The sky seemed to hang inches over their heads—or perhaps it was whole miles; no one could be sure, as there didn't seem to be either clouds or stars in the violet-colored sky.

It was not _completely_ bare, however; the land in the immediate area looked just as scarred as any battlefield—although, Cosette noticed, several of those scars appeared to be full of molten lava. As if this was not strange enough, others had bits of Dwarven metal scattered here and there. The entire scene was enough to give Cosette strength enough to sit up and ask the foremost question on her mind.

"Where the _hell_ are we?" she croaked, to no one in particular. For this looked like no place she had ever seen before in her life or her imagination. Her first thought had been the sands of the Alik'r desert in Hammerfell, but even those, surely, were not so inhospitable as … wherever they were right now.

Malys was lost for words completely as she took in the sights—Cosette couldn't blame her; she still couldn't comprehend why or how the vampire had suddenly Shouted just like the Dragonborn. She would have to ask later, however—right now, the mages had much bigger problems to deal with right now.

Vinye, meanwhile, looked just as scared as she was puzzled as she took in her surroundings, and when she finally answered Cosette, it didn't sound as though she wanted to believe what she herself was saying.

" … I-I think we're in the Outer Realms," the Altmer stammered after a while.

"What?!" Cosette whirled around at her. "How can you be sure of that?!"

"Think back." Vinye pointed around them. "Solyn wanted to make Grimnir spend four thousand years in the Outer Realms, just like him. All that fire he was throwing at the Arch-Mage—I don't think it _was_ fire. I think it was a way to get _here_."

Malys looked her confusion. Cosette imagined her expression was much the same.

"Look around us," Vinye told them, pointing to the scars in the land around them, and the lava inside several of them. "Some of that fire Solyn conjured got blasted back into the lava all around the Forge. I'd wager my last septim that all that lava ended up here."

"Just like that portal," said Malys. "But if that's the case … where's Solyn?"

The three mages looked around, but there was no sign of the Chimer—there were not even footprints leading out from there they'd woken up.

"Maybe he appeared someplace different," Vinye thought out loud.

Malys shook her head. "I think if he had, he'd have found us already—and we'd already be dead." Her split face suddenly fell. "You don't think—!"

Cosette was certainly thinking—but she wasn't happy. She felt that familiar rage inside her returning— _she_ had wanted to kill Solyn, to exact her revenge for the way he had cheated her out of killing Taron—but the consuming storm felt more distant this time. Compared to her current predicament, it was a mere rumble on the horizon.

She felt _powerless_.

"You saw that, right?" Vinye was asking in the meantime. "Those two Daedra?"

"Is that what they were?" Malys was incredulous. "I thought I recognized one of their voices, but—"

"I recognized them both," said Cosette—it was only fair she come clean for this. "We all know the big one was Malacath, but I'm almost certain the other one was Peryite—I had words with him after I recovered the Spellbreaker."

The trio sat there in silence for a long while, thinking about the implications of what might have happened to bring two Daedric Princes onto Mundus in such a way, and in such a temper. And there was still the looming question.

_Where was Dagoth Solyn?_

Cosette didn't want to accept that he might be dead—but the magnitude of what had happened was finally beginning to sink in. The fact that those two Princes had shown up, and the way they had spoken to Solyn, made the odds that he had survived unscathed less than zero.

But if so, where was his body? The Chimer had caused whatever had brought the three mages here, as far as Cosette was concerned—that fire and the portal to … _wherever_ this place was … had come from _him_.

Suddenly, something caught her eye, far off in the distance. It was hard to tell, but against the uniform sky—

"Lights!" Suddenly the Breton was pointing in the direction of where she'd seen them. "Behind that hill—look!"

Both elves turned to follow her finger, and Cosette's mind was buzzing as she stared at the mysterious illumination—the lights did not flicker and fade, as they would with a fire. "Let's check it out," the Breton offered, "but stay alert; I'm getting a bad feeling about all this."

And indeed, Cosette wasn't the only one. As the trio proceeded towards the source of the lights, none of them were entirely sure what they would find on the other side of the ridge—or whether that discovery would prove to be more dangerous than even Solyn.

* * *

As they drew closer and closer to the hillside, all five soon began to feel a rumbling under their feet—not that of an earthquake: it was more of a vibrating sensation, as if great engines the size of entire keeps were churning beneath the earth. Vinye was quick to equate the noises to the rumbling noises that constantly dominated the Dwemer ruins.

For a moment, this had left the mages in shock. "You don't think this is another part of Rkund, do you?" Cosette asked, her round face fearful. "Or maybe one more of those claudi-whatever spells Solyn set up around the ruins?"

 _Claudication_ , Vinye thought with the faintest trace of annoyance. Even so, if it hadn't been for past evidence, she might be inclined to believe Cosette. It was entirely possible that Solyn had _meant_ to transport them here, with no way of getting back—none that they could see, anyway. He would then finish them off here, without Grimnir to assist them in their battle.

However, Vinye knew her memory could not be denied. She knew the truth of what she'd seen and heard. They were within the Outer Realms, beyond the shadow of a doubt. And if Solyn had intented to bring them to this place, they would almost certainly have found him—

"Wait," Malys suddenly spoke up. "Someone's up ahead."

Vinye did a double take. Not at the fact that Malys had noticed this first—her vampiric eyesight was far more acute than hers—but that there was someone else inside the Realms, and so near to them, too! Something was telling her this was not mere coincidence.

She immediately tensed, ready to flood this entire hillside with lightning if need be. "Is it Solyn?" she asked Malys.

The dark elf narrowed her glowing eyes. "I don't think so," she said, puzzled. "It looks like a ghost … no, it couldn't be … "

She mumbled indistinctly to herself for a while longer, occasionally nodding or shaking her head—and suddenly she tensed.

One second later, Malys was racing past Vinye and Cosette. "It _is_ him!" she was shouting over and over again as Vinye hurried behind her. "It's him—it's really him!"

"Slow down, Malys," Cosette soothed, hurrying up to her and throwing out a hand before the Dunmer could get any more excited. "What are you talking about?"

They approached the figure Vinye presumed she had seen—or at least, the shade of one; its wide, translucent eyes glowed in fear, and it shied away from them all.

And then it saw Malys.

Vinye could not be sure why, but once the shade had seen the vampire, it had changed almost immediately. No longer was back away, frightened of them, and no longer did it seem to question why they were here; instead, it drew itself up to its full height—almost as tall as Malys—and its eyes were now so bright that the Altmer felt laid bare before them.

"Malys," she asked, "who is this? Do you know him?"

"I do," Malys replied, her voice suddenly quiet. "It's Arniel Gane."

 _Arniel Gane_ … Vinye thought there was something familiar about that name. Where had she—

_" …_ _may have lost his body and mind, but he was still useful to me—more so than while he was alive … he did help me to discover the link between Nirn and the Realms … "_

And Vinye understood. Solyn had used Arniel as an anchor to return to Mundus _from the Realms._

"How do you know him?" Cosette asked, sizing up the new arrival with an expression Vinye had never seen before. "What's he doing here?"

"The Arch-Mage said he used to be with the College at one time," Malys replied. Her glowing eyes were not breaking contact with Arniel's own, not even to blink. "Even helped him out with a project about the Dwemer. Somehow, they got their hands on Keening, and did some kind of experiment with it. That experiment must have sent Arniel here, and made him like this." She swept an arm in the shade's direction. "He's completely mindless now—I think."

"Deep … drums … deep, it runs," Arniel suddenly spoke. His voice was like the death rattle of a lich, and Vinye felt her insides freezing up at the unearthly, echoing sounds. There was _power_ behind this voice—untold amounts of power, but not a single ounce of control, and Vinye was unsure which of these scared her more.

Arniel's translucent head suddenly snapped in Malys' direction. "The devil?" he whispered.

Vinye and Cosette traded looks of confusion, and again when Malys—who apparently seemed to understand what the shade was saying—gave her reply. "We don't know," she said hesitantly, as if she herself didn't believe it. "He didn't come with us."

She turned to Vinye and Cosette. "I think 'the devil' is his way of asking about Solyn," she explained. "There were a lot of people in those days who called his father, Dagoth Ur, the devil himself. And after what Dagoth's son did to him to return to Tamriel … " Malys raised a hand here, as if to lay it on Arniel's shoulder, but her hand passed right through him as if it was nothing.

"Not … devil … " rasped Arniel suddenly. Vinye thought the shade might have been struggling, as if something was holding him back from saying what he wanted to say. "Devil … pain … deep … drums … body … "

And then there was a flash of light, and Arniel lurched backward with a terrible, earsplitting scream. His translucent form crackled with lightning, and the shade thrashed about, shrieking incoherently. Vinye leapt backward in horror as bolts rained down around them, and held up a ward to deflect those nearest to burning a hole through her body.

At length, Arniel eventually stopped writhing about, and was silent again. All eyes were on Malys as the mages silently begged her for an answer.

It took some time for Malys to snap out of it, and notice that Vinye and Cosette were expecting a reply. She gulped uneasily. "Whatever that was," she eventually said, "Dagoth Solyn wasn't responsible for it—and somehow I don't think the trip here gave him that kind of power."

She turned back to Arniel. "Who did this to you?" she asked gently. "Who else knows you're here?"

Slowly, wordlessly—almost carefully—Arniel Gane pointed up the hillside they were traversing, where the lights they had been pursuing were coming from.

In less than a minute, they crested the hill—and Vinye was floored by what they saw.

Dwemer towers: dozens of them, more than they'd yet seen in one place, had been erected before them in the valley beyond, miles away from where they were standing. The smallest of these were still dozens of feet high, and became progressively larger further inward—almost like a giant pyramid, Vinye thought. The tallest spires were lost to sight among the violet-gray clouds, but from what she could tell, that still meant these towers were hundreds of feet high—perhaps even as tall as the Numidium!

Between them and the massive complex of stone and golden metal was a long, thin thread of road, impossibly flat and straight. Massive slabs of stone, high and wide as any house, were some distance away on either side of this road. As Arniel led then further along this road, it struck Vinye how meticulously these house-size stones had been placed—they were evenly spaced, and perfectly parallel with this straight path. In fact, it almost looked as though they were the exact same size and shape as one another.

The rumbling noises were getting louder.

Then Vinye drew closer, and gasped as she stones became more detailed, allowing her to see what they truly were—not merely house- _like_ , these rocks actually _were_ houses! Arniel did not pause in his step, but Vinye lingered behind for only a moment to let her green eyes rove over the intricate stonework of the dwelling. It certainly _looked_ Dwemer, that much was clear—but if there was any metal to be found in its construction, Vinye wasn't seeing any.

But there was one thing she noticed: the more houses they passed, the bigger they were becoming.

As she continued on, and caught up with Arniel and the others, a very strange thought was taking form in her mind. Malys' current observation wasn't helping to dispel it in the slightest.

"Have you had a look at this road?" the Dunmer was saying to her. "It's _smooth_. Not from time, mind. There's no wear and tear to be found here at all—not even so much as a crumble of rock out of place. This is _recent_."

Vinye stopped briefly enough to brush her hand over the surface, and was surprised—it was indeed smooth, almost like rough ice.

Cosette, meanwhile, looked uneasy as she leveled with Arniel. "Who else is here?" she asked the shade.

Arniel did not answer. Maybe because he wouldn't—or maybe, Vinye thought, as memories of the unexpected lightning from earlier resurfaced in her mind's eye, because he _couldn't_ ; he didn't want to risk the same thing happening again, in the midst of this unexpected civilization.

But they need not have worried; presently, Arniel stopped in front of the biggest dwelling they had yet encountered. It was easily twice as large as any mansion in Solitude—but it was clearly no mansion. The sounds that Vinye was hearing from inside it were more akin to the average town blacksmith: the monotonous thunder of hammer on anvil, the hiss and shriek of hot metal on water, and the _whoosh_ of air from the bellows that stoked the fires—all on a scale a hundred times larger than any blacksmith in Skyrim was capable of.

Between them and this building was a great round pavilion that Vinye thought might be a marketplace of some description: a circular pavilion, almost as wide as that of the lowest levels of Rkund, with an eight-sided fountain in the center. There was enough space here for dozens of merchants, she imagined, each one plying a cart full of wares to passersby all around. It struck her how such an active place could be so deserted right now, she thought.

Only it wasn't deserted—five figures had suddenly emerged from the enormous forge beyond, all of them tall and thin enough to pass for high elves. But Vinye could see several things off about their appearance in that regard: where an Altmer's skin could be anywhere from golden to olive green, theirs were much more pale—so much so that Vinye wondered how long it had been since they'd seen the sun, or even if this place _had_ a sun. Most of this near-colorless flesh was concealed by robes of a flowing golden brown, decorated with golden and silver patterns of lines and right angles.

Their faces, however, were not so concealed—and this also allowed Vinye to notice another oddity of these "elves": their almond-shaped eyes were a uniform jet-black, much like those of the thief Rolega instead of the green- and amber-colored eyes favored by the high elves. These eyes were completely emotionless, and Vinye could not tell whether or not they were staring at her. These elves did not speak, but the message in their gaze was clear.

 _You can go no further_.

But even as she took a step back from the group, Vinye was especially struck by the _beards_ of these elves—the overwhelming majority of them were jet black in color, though others were brown or rust-colored. The eldest of the five had either steel-gray whiskers, and a select few even had beards as white as snow. And then there were the fullness of these beards; the shortest of them still reached down to their chests—

And that was when the truth of the discovery hit Vinye like the punch of a steam centurion. She could not believe what she was seeing.

These weren't just elves— _they were Dwemer_.

Real, living, breathing, flesh-and-blood Dwemer.

She could not speak—her mind was racing, trying its utmost to find something—anything to say to bridge the gap between the three mages and the fabled Lost Race of Tamriel.

 _I am honored to be in your presence_ —no, no, much too deferential; it bordered on boot-kissing—

 _Do you know what we went through to get this far?_ Truthful, but no, that was too accusing—

"You're taller than I thought you'd be."

Time, space, and the entire world around them froze as mage and dwarf alike stared at Malys. The vampire's glowing eyes were wide as coins, and she had a blank look on her face, as if it was only now apparent that she had been the first person to start a conversation with a Dwemer in centuries—if not entire millennia—and that _this_ was how she had chosen to start it.

And then, something even more unthinkable happened: Cosette laughed. And suddenly Malys was laughing, and Vinye found herself joining in against all better judgment. The five Dwemer stood there, their pale faces furrowed in confusion, and for some reason that just made the three mages laugh even more.

It was a needed moment, Vinye would think later. They—three novices and a Dragonborn, wherever Grimnir might be—had just taken down one of the most powerful sorcerers that the world had ever seen. There was no greater reward to be had after making a moment like that possible—save for each other's companionship.

Although, Vinye conceded, the discovery they'd helped to make certainly came close: after nearly four thousand years of mystery, confusion, and debate, the lost race of the Dwemer had finally been discovered and contacted.

The Altmer smiled inwardly. She was looking forward to writing a book on _this_.

* * *

Fortunately, the humor of the situation helped to break the ice after the awkward introduction, and soon the mages and the Dwemer were chatting away at each other, telling of how they had come to this point in time, and learning things they had not dared give even the slightest dream. Of course, neither could apparently speak the language of the other—especially so for the mages. As a result, they were forced to use Arniel as a translator, as he alone seemed to have at least a cursory understanding of the Dwemer language. The shade of the mad Breton could only talk in fragments, however, meaning that much of whatever the dwarves had to say was forever lost in translation.

It was almost ironic, Vinye thought; Arniel Gane had given up everything he had—body, mind, and perhaps even his soul—just to figure out what had happened to the Dwemer. He had succeeded, even though he had been irreversibly altered as a result. But now, it seemed likely that he was the only one who knew the dwarves were still alive and well, after nearly four thousand years gone from Mundus without a trace.

 _Well_ , her mind quickly amended, _not anymore, anyway_.

Then Malys asked, "Will you be coming back?"

There was silence from the Dwemer, before they muttered to and amongst themselves. Everyone turned to Arniel for a translation, and the shade of the wizard heaved an otherworldly sigh.

"Cannot … say," he spoke. "Cannot … speak … geas … "

"Geas?" Malys wondered out loud. Vinye found herself confused as well—she'd not heard that word before.

"It's an ancient form of dark magic," Cosette spoke up just then. Her voice was unusually soft. "Over in High Rock, it was big in the First and Second Eras, but these days you only see it in covens that practice hedge-magic, like what the Forsworn use. _Geasa_ are like curses, they're placed on people. They're used to … keep them in line."

"Meaning?" Malys pressed on, but Vinye thought she understood.

"Imagine you have your own Argonian slave," Cosette told the vampire. "Only you don't want him blabbing your secret to the whole wide world. Chains and gags can only take you so far, but a _geas_ takes you one step further. One incantation is all it takes for it to take effect—and whoever or whatever the curse is placed on can never speak of a certain event again. Your secret is safe with the rest of the world, for as long as the _geas_ is in effect."

Malys looked from her to Arniel and back again. "Can it be broken?" she asked.

"It can," Cosette replied, "but one of two things has to happen. First is that most _geasa_ are absolute—they can only be broken by the person who cast them in the first place. I say _most_ , because magic like that is very specific—you have to know precisely what you want to say."

Malys furrowed her split brow. "And the other thing?"

"It's … not that _geasa_ are unbreakable by their nature," said Cosette. "Although they're pretty damn close. It's only that most people who try to force their way out of a _geas_ end up dead."

She smiled thinly. "Usually in a very _messy_ way."

Vinye winced, imagining a glowing rune encircling a man's mouth and face before detonating in a shower of blood and gore. She debated asking what good a _geas_ did when placed on someone who was—for all intents and purposes—no longer a living being.

Then she remembered that she was standing among the most intelligent race of beings that Nirn had ever produced. If there was a way around it, then the chances were that the Dwemer had found a way to bind Arniel's shade to their will. Part of her wondered if this was the reason he always talked in such a broken manner—this _geas_ must have tortured Arniel past the breaking point.

He was completely mindless now—just another puppet of the Dwemer.

Suddenly, the dwarves stopped talking in murmurs, and one of their number stood up from his table. Vinye guessed from his long, stiff, snow-white beard, and how straightly he carried himself, that this must be one of their leaders—if not _the_ leader. The elf's black, almond-shaped eyes sparkled, even in the dim torchlight. It was both mystifying and unsettling, and Vinye was not sure which one might be more applicable.

"I am Tonographer Nchubthngth," he introduced himself in a low, stilted voice. He did not extend a hand—or indeed, any gesture of welcome. "I was among the lowest ranks of Tonal Architects who followed Lord Kagrenac."

Some part of Vinye was not surprised in the slightest that this Dwemer could speak fluent Cyrodiilic all this time. Malys, however, certainly looked shocked—and Cosette looked indignant. But Vinye, for the most part, was intrigued— _a Dwemer who knew Kagrenac personally?_

"When we first arrived here," Nchubthngth began, "we had no method of recorporating into the Mundus. The liminal barriers that separate these Outer Realms from the majority of the Aurbic Planes cannot ordinarily be circumpenetrated in a transpontine manner. Even the use of most hyperagonal media, as with the Sigil Stones of Oblivion, would have discorporated their user before the conclusion of the appropriate incantation. Indeed, the only medium capable of producing the requisite energies to make possible this circumpenetration is an Aedric Stone, or some other artifact of Aedric nature—such as the Heart of Lorkhan."

"I understood them better when _Arniel_ was the one speaking for them," Cosette whispered in an undertone. Vinye hushed her with a wave of her hand as Nchubthngth continued his dissertation, without regard for his audience.

"Kagrenac captured the transfinite energies of the Heart of Lorkhan with his own enchantments," said the dwarf. "It was his intention to transfer that Aedric energy to the others of our race, that we might be consubstantial with the Numidium, the Walk-Brass Tower, whose Stone was to be consubstantial with our combined essence."

 _In essence, becoming gods_ , Vinye thought. In truth, she couldn't understand a single word that Nchubthngth was saying—underscoring further still the divide between the Dwemer and the rest of the world. But there were many scholarly texts on the matter of the dwarves' quest for apotheosis, and more learned minds than she were aware of the ploys of the Dwemer. The Heart of Lorkhan had been their tool to godhood—perhaps even the "Stone", as they put it, which powered the golem Numidium.

"However," said Nchubthngth, sucking air through his teeth, "there is no way to properly misinterpret what happened next: something went wrong.

"I watched Kagrenac as he lifted his Tools to the Heart, preparing to transfer himself to the Numidium, whereupon we would all follow in kind," the dwarf explained. He had dispensed with what had, up to this point, been a rather erudite demeanor, and now his speech was beginning to sound strangely poetic.

"The shockwave came, and encompassed us all in its wake," Nchubthngth went on. "But the light never came—there was only darkness, and then there was the beyond, and finally beyond even that. We were scattered to the furthest reaches of Aetherius. Only a few of us ended up here; the others you see around me are the progenies of those few. Where the others were sent to cannot be currently ascertained; as far as my … not _inconsiderable_ knowledge informs me, I am the only survivor of that regrettable incident."

"You keep talking as though this is just a setback," Malys challenged them. "But you haven't answered my question. Will you be coming back?!"

Again the dwarves talked among themselves in mutters and murmurs. "Until he inadvertently circumpenetrated the barrier with Keening," Nchubthngth explained, indicating Arniel with a dispassionate flicker of his dark eyes, "we did not possess the resources necessary to repeat the process here, and this plane is vast enough—perhaps infinitely so—that we had no knowledge this Solyn was in the same space until after your companion disclosed as much to us.

"That having been said, however," Nchubthngth went on, "now that the liminal barrier has been demonstrably breached in a manner suitable for transport of living flesh and blood, it is theoretically possible for the Dwemer to return—with the assistance of your colleague, of course. Whether he is willing or not shall be ascertained in—"

He paused, _hmph_ -ing to himself. "Well, I do not believe we are willing to disclose _that_ particular achievement," he continued. "But the Dwemer may return to Tamriel one day, perhaps in the distant future, long after the time-threads of your lives have unraveled. In the meantime, we will resume our efforts to apotheosize our people."

He leveled a dark stare at the three mages; his eyes were no longer twinkling. "And this time around, we _will_ be successful."

Vinye felt a shiver creep down her spine. This Dwemer spoke with absolute surety; he knew they would eventually return. And if Vinye was honest, the prospect of an entire race of xenophobic slave drivers with god-like power and intelligence—and near-zero regard for life around them—was nothing short of terrifying.

There was already one of those living on Nirn right now.

"And Dagoth Solyn?" Cosette asked; Vinye could hear the hesitation in her voice. "Arniel told us he isn't here. So where else could he have gone?"

"Dagoth?" Nchubthngth's brow furrowed only the tiniest perceptible amount. "That would make sense, yes. The tools of the Dwemer were never meant to be consubstantial with those of the Daedra. To make it so would precipitate a contradiction of the highest possible order."

The way he said "contradiction" made Vinye uneasy. "What happened to Solyn, then?"

"In the event that his Tools might fall into the wrong hands," Nchubthngth replied, "Lord Kagrenac designed a fail-safe: he constructed and enchanted the Tools such that they could only handle a certain amount of power at one time. Partly, this was to prevent the Tools from overloading with the energies of the Heart, and disintegrating in the process of siphoning them—which would no doubt have set back his designs immeasurably, and possibly discorporated the entire of our people past the point of no return.

"However," coughed the Dwemer, "Lord Kagrenac was also wary that his Tools, if recovered in the future, might be used in a manner contrary to his designs. In that event, the Tools would form a metaphysical circuit with their wielder, allowing the energy absorbed to course through its wielder directly—unrefined by the Tools."

Nchubthngth blinked. "To appropriate a phrase from your world, this Dagoth Solyn was damned if he did, yet damned if he did not."

Vinye swallowed; she was getting the feeling of pieces falling into place. "What does that mean?"

"You mentioned that several artifacts of the Daedra had been combined with the Tools?" Nchubthngth asked. When Vinye nodded, he went on, "Then their respective masters undoubtedly took offense to what Solyn was doing as well, and intended to punish him for it as only they could. It is indicative of the Daedra's powers, I believe, that they were able to discorporate Solyn before the circuit was completed, and thence before he would have suffered the same fate by Lord Kagrenac's methods."

He sniffed. "I do not begrudge them for this," he said with the barest of shrugs, "but a part of me, however insignificant in comparison to the rest of my being, had a wish to see Lord Kagrenac's genius prove itself superior to the host of Dagoth for the final time. Yet again, the Daedra continue to make a mockery of themselves in the face of our advances."

Vinye swallowed again. "Then Solyn is … dead?" she asked, hearing the others edge slightly closer to her, as anxious as she was to hear the final verdict.

Nchubthngth paused for an instant that might well have been an eternity. "Yes," he said. "That ancient House is ended now—and by no more fitting a method than by its own folly."

And just like that, Vinye felt her shoulders slump. They'd done it. They'd destroyed the last remaining member of House Dagoth—the Sixth House of Morrowind—and the last Chimer in all of existence.

Behind her, she heard Cosette swear under her breath, and Malys' face looked divided between happiness and uneasiness. Vinye could not blame her—the battle was won, and perhaps the war.

But the fact still remained: where did they go from here? As far as Vinye could tell, there was no way out of this place. She felt that cold fear returning; would the mages have to stay here, then, for the rest of their natural lives—just as the Dwemer had been forced to do? Or—

Suddenly, several of the Dwemer nearby froze in what they were doing, and cocked their heads as one in the same direction—behind and off to the mages' left, towards the hillside from whence they had come.

Nchubthngth rounded on the mages. "Did you come here alone?" he asked them. His voice and face were completely unreadable.

"We did," Vinye answered him. "But we left someone else behind on Mundus."

"Is that right?" Nchubthngth looked vaguely annoyed—and that worried Vinye. "Because it would appear that whoever you left behind is attempting to break through the liminal barrier with brute force."

He leveled his cold stare at the Altmer. "That is _not possible_."

Vinye was about to ask how he could tell something like this was happening—and then the sky exploded with greenish-golden light. The purple sky-cloud was dispelled by the shockwave, and Arniel spoke, loudly and more clearly than he ever had before.

"Where are you?"

Vinye's heart soared into her throat—she knew that voice well, and knew it did not belong to Arniel. "Dragonborn," she whispered.

The dwarves heard her, unfortunately—and they did not look pleased at all. Nchubthngth in particular was looking from the sky and to the mages, then back to the shade of the Breton, where Grimnir's voice had emerged.

"You are with a Dragonborn?" he said, his voice low and calculating. "This was not anticipated. This would explain why he is able to circumpenetrate the liminal barrier so directly."

Now Nchubthngth was pacing, muttering to himself. Vinye only heard snippets of what he was saying, but none of it made any sense to her: "temple … essence of an Aedra … manifest in flesh … superior being … "

Vinye frowned at this. Was Grimnir really all that? She thought back to what Nchubthngth had called the Aedric Stone, an infinite wellspring of energy that he had used to describe the Heart of Lorkhan. Did Grimnir indeed harbor some aspect of one of these Aedric Stones?

Or was he— _no, he couldn't be_ , her mind quickly dismissed. Vinye's head was spinning now; her encounter with the Dwemer had raised many more questions than it had answered.

"We're here!" Cosette suddenly called out at the top of her lungs, as if to a passing ship while stranded on a remote island. "We're here, Arch-Mage!"

As if in reply, the skies brightened further still, and the rumbling beneath their feet was growing louder, like thunder.

But the dwarves, for their part, had straightened up as one. There was no rumble or murmur amongst themselves; each Dwemer possessed the same steely-eyed gaze, and none more so than Tonographer Nchubthngth.

"We cannot allow him here," he said coldly. "That is not an outcome we would prefer come to pass. But we will not begrudge you your return. The entity you call Arniel will remain here, else the portal to the Mundane be abused once again. And as for the three of you," he added, looming over the three mages with stone-cold austerity, "I believe you have all seen and heard too much. And if that knowledge were to be abused … well, I am sure you would agree that _one_ Solyn was enough."

Nchubthngth's palm suddenly glowed with sickly green light. "I say this for you, mages of the Mundane. Until the appointed hour, you are never to speak of what you saw here for as long as your mortal life allows."

Cosette eyed the strange magic warily. "And if we refuse?"

Nchubthngth raised his hand. "You won't."

For an instant, Vinye thought she saw a twinkle in the ancient Dwemer's eye, and then the light from his hand reached its peak intensity. Bright green light consumed them, and at the same time, the elf felt a great tugging sensation from somewhere behind her. It felt as though thousands upon thousands of tiny hooks had latched onto her flesh, and were pulling her back like a fish on the line.

And then, it was as if entire of Aetherius burst forth in countless millions of stars, rushing past Vinye with the noise of a great maelstrom. For an instant, her world was nothing but light, sound, and those hooks that continued to reel her backward—

And finally, the light shrank to a point. The maelstrom died in her ears. She closed her eyes, opened them again—

And she knew she was back—they were all back, in a place that they knew was absolutely, unquestionably _real_.

Vinye felt her knees sink to the blasted stone of the deepest depths of Rkund, not even hearing the shouts of Arch-Mage Grimnir as she lost her balance, and was sick upon the ash-crusted rock and metal. But she did not care for any of this—she was grateful that they were all here, now. Worse for wear, perhaps—but they were here regardless.

 _We're all here_ , Vinye repeated to herself as she coughed out the last dribbles of bile in her throat. _It's all over …_

* * *

It was a long time before anyone dared to speak up; the magnitude of everything that had happened was just now beginning to sink in. There was no cheering, no other kind of celebration—that might come later, but a high price had been paid for the mages to make it this far.

"How did you find us?" Cosette eventually asked breathlessly.

"Just barely," answered Grimnir, as he replaced his staff over his shoulder. "When I discovered the residual energy left by Solyn's portal, I knew that you had to be alive. It took a very long time to pierce the barrier between the two planes—by the time I finally did, this staff was almost entirely drained of its power."

His fingers caressed the ornately carved wood of the staff in question—and true to his word, Mistress Malys saw that the normally glowing sphere that topped the artifact had gone dark. "Wherever that portal led to," Grimnir said, "must have been very remote indeed."

"It was," Vinye said, her tone excited despite her ashen face. "You wouldn't believe what we found in there! We were in—"

And suddenly she stopped. Her eyes went wide, and she made a noise that almost sounded like she'd tried to swallow her own tongue.

Grimnir leaned closer. "Sorry?"

Vinye opened her mouth, intent on speaking again—but no words were coming out. Her eyes were wider than ever—clearly she was trying to say _something_ —and now Malys was beginning to suspect something was wrong with the Altmer.

Mercifully, Cosette stepped forward to speak up in her place. "We found someone on the other side, Arch-Mage—one of your old friends," she said. "He was—"

And again, no sound came out: Malys could clearly see Cosette's lips mouth out "Arniel Gane", but the wideness of the Breton's eyes suggested that the same thing that had just struck Vinye had now affected her as well.

She frowned. Something was wrong here—it was time to test a theory.

She took a deep gulp of air, and said, "We found the Dwemer"—

And then it happened: Malys' own throat suddenly closed up, almost of its own accord, before She had even started to say "Dwemer", turning the word into nothing more than a hacking cough. A buzzing noise sounded off in the vampire's ears, and an odd tingling sensation coursed through Her head—almost like lightning.

 _What had just happened here?!_ She thought wildly. But even as she questioned this, she felt her heart sinking—something was telling Her that She already knew the answer.

And sure enough, She felt Herself flashing back to their final moments in the Outer Realms, when Nchubthngth had shot an unknown spell at themragments of Cosette's words from only minutes ago floated back into Her mind: _"they're like curses … absolute … unbreakable … can never speak of a certain event again … "_

And She understood. The _geas_ —the same one that bound Arniel Gane—now bound the three mages, forever and irreversibly. Nchubthngth and his Dwemer had been very thorough; they were intent on remaining hidden until the very last possible second of their exile.

Malys cursed the dwarves under Her breath for a good five minutes then; she cursed them for what they had done to the Falmer simply because the snow elves of old had refused to simply become extinct. She cursed their technology and prowess in engineering for making a fortress the likes of Rkund possible. But most of all, Malys cursed the Tonographer, Nchubthngth, for applying this damned curse to them—as long as this _geas_ remained in effect, there was no way they could ever share their discovery with the outside world.

No way. Not one.

It took a very long while before the vampire was able to clear Her mind of all that hate and ill will. But eventually, after She had worked all the invective out of her system, Malys finally swallowed, and spoke Her mind.

"Dagoth Solyn," She began slowly, choosing Her words carefully so as not to activate the _geas_ again. "He mentioned something about a prophecy, Arch-Mage?"

Grimnir heaved a sigh, but said nothing else for a few long moments.

Then, "Yes," he said simply. "I'd honestly forgotten about it until now, though—and I certainly wasn't aware of just how deeply that prophecy could be read. In hindsight, though, I should have known better—that prophecy came from an Elder Scroll, and those are not straightforward by any stretch of our imagination."

Malys listened with growing interest. _An Elder Scroll, huh?_

"At the time, I was told that I was the one prophesied to defeat Alduin, the god of destruction in dragon form," Grimnir continued, "from no less than the master of the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. I believed them, and I proved that I was able to defeat him. I fulfilled my destiny as Dragonborn when Alduin fell in Sovngarde."

Malys sensed a "but" coming.

"For a while, I thought that was the end of it," Grimnir said. "I came to Winterhold, much the way you did, and became what you see today. Thane of Whiterun, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold … I was on old man, even then, and I was content to live out the rest of my years by that point. Two years ago, however … things _changed_.

"It was just after I had become the Arch-Mage," he went on. "I encountered a necromancer of great power, one of the most dangerous sorcerers I've ever seen. I dare not speak his name; I do not wish to think more of him today, nor do I wish to meet him again. However, he … _let slip_ that there might have been more to that prophecy of Alduin and the Last Dragonborn."

He put his hand up to his mask. "Right before he did _this_ to me."

Malys was close enough to see his fingers clench over the rusted iron of the mask, and for a moment Her breath caught in her throat. Was Grimnir going to show his face to them—show them what had been behind the mask all this time?

Behind him, She saw Vinye looking unusually pale, and the Altmer was looking at Grimnir with even more trepidation than She was now. Malys frowned—had Vinye already been clued in about what had happened to Grimnir, to make him the man he was now?

But then, Grimnir's grip slackened, and his hand slid from his mask—and Malys found Herself breathing a sigh of relief. She wasn't sure She was ready to see what lay beneath just yet. If Vinye's reaction was any indication, then the chances were it wasn't good.

"And you think it was the same prophecy that Solyn had talked about?" Malys asked. "The one where you and Alduin … " She did not finish her sentence, instead looking to Grimnir for another explanation.

The Arch-Mage sighed again. "I'll be honest with you," he said. "The first time I heard Solyn tell me about this prophecy, I was very confused—myself and Alduin are two different entities, are we not? But in hindsight, it would make sense that we were truly one and the same."

The mages' eyes went wide. "How can you be so sure?" Cosette asked from behind Malys' left.

 _"'Alduin komeyt tiid,'"_ Grimnir said simply. "That was what the Greybeards told me—that when Alduin returned, the Dragonborn would return with him. That was how it was supposed to be. I slew Alduin—I slew a god. But that's just it—can a god be completely destroyed?"

He failed to notice Cosette shrinking slightly behind him.

"Alduin was unique, even among his own kind," said Grimnir. "The Greybeards believed that all I did was perpetuate the cycle. And I'm inclined to agree with them. One way or another, Alduin would return—but even if he did, he would not be able to for a very long time."

He lowered his head. "And then _he_ came," he murmured. " _Miraak_ —a dragon priest from ancient times, who was himself Dragonborn as well. He tried to have me killed not long after my encounter with that necromancer. He was, and is to this day, one of the hardest victories I've ever earned."

Malys noted the bitterness in his voice—and so did Vinye. "You don't sound very happy about it," ventured the high elf.

"I don't," said Grimnir. "Not anymore. The battle was very taxing on me—body, mind, and soul—and I found myself asking a lot of questions afterward. Who was I, to turn on my own kind the way I did? Was I more of a man—or a _dragon_ —for wanting to destroy Miraak forever? Or did I become something else in the process?"

He spat. "And then I returned to Skyrim—to Winterhold—and it was back to business as usual. The land was in a crisis, and naturally they had to look to me to solve their problem for them. All thought of the necromancer's prophecy was driven from my mind—I had thought very little of it until Solyn brought it back up."

Vinye's eyes narrowed, and she drew herself up to her full height. "I thought the Dragonborn was supposed to be a hero to his people," she said, a little hotly.

She had touched a nerve. Grimnir, too, drew his own self up to his full height—Malys had never before appreciated how intimidating the Arch-Mage's figure could be.

"You weren't there when Solyn attacked the College," the Arch-Mage said, in one of the coldest tones of voice She had ever heard. "You don't know how far I was pushed that day. And you didn't see the Shout I had to use in order to win that battle—and for your sake, I hope you never do."

He rounded on Vinye. "I am the Arch-Mage of Winterhold. But I do not see myself as the Dragonborn—as far as I'm concerned, that's merely another side of me. But it's the only side of me these people want to see. They think I'm a mere tool—some magickal be-all, end-all of all the problems in their little world." He spat again. "If they knew what the Dragonborn was _really_ like, they'd do well to leave me in peace."

Vinye sighed. "Are you still letting what Solyn said get to your head, Arch-Mage?" she asked in resignation.

"No," replied Grimnir, "merely thinking about what he told me before. Because whether he knew it or not, Solyn was right about me. At least, I certainly thought so. He told me I was only capable of conquest and destruction—but not of creation; he claimed I was unwilling to test the limits of the world we live in."

The sigh he heaved sounded more like a snort. "I have done enough of that in my time," he huffed.

Vinye looked as if she was about to make another rebuttal, but she eventually thought better of it, and the Altmer lapsed into silence.

Malys considered Grimnir's words. " … Then you think it's true?" She asked carefully. "Do you really think you're Alduin reborn?"

Grimnir did not answer—and if it was possible, Malys now felt more scared about asking her next question than ever before. She briefly debated letting it slide, but as is so often the case, the natural curiosity of mortalkind eventually won out.

"How did I Shout, then?" She asked. "I'm not Dragonborn—and I certainly didn't study with the Greybeards, or else you'd have seen me long before today."

Grimnir stared back at her, his iron mask completely unreadable. "Well, there's no hiding it any longer, I suppose," he said. "I had my suspicions about who and what you were, Miss Malys—although unlike our mutual friend, I suspect I was much less … _impulsive_ in voicing them."

Malys saw Vinye and Cosette trade looks with one another. She thought of the blank white eyes of Lucius, and grimaced.

"That said," Grimnir continued, "vampires differ from one area to another—no clan is the same throughout all of Tamriel. The Whet-Fangs of Black Marsh, the Order of Cyrodiil—there are over a hundred different kinds of vampires throughout the continent, and probably more beyond, if the tales about the Tsaesci of Akavir are true. But you, Malys, are especially unique. I've not seen your abilities in any other vampire."

The Dunmer felt both prideful and worried. Hearing this from no less than the Dragonborn was certainly a compliment. And yet …

Grimnir coughed. "Unless I'm much mistaken, you were able to Shout because of the blood I gave to revive you inside that cave— _my_ blood. As soon as you ingested those few drops, you were able to mimic my ability to Shout as the dragons can, even to the point of learning individual Words."

Malys' glowing eyes went wide. _All that just from drinking the Dragonborn's blood?!_ She remembered how She had felt after regaining consciousness in that cave—that burning feeling, as if a feral beast was tearing at Her insides, ready for release.

 _Ready for more_.

She shivered. "How can you handle it?" She asked, trembling.

Grimnir was silent for a moment, thinking. "If I could tell you, I would," he said. "But there are days when I wonder why it hasn't destroyed me yet. The blood of a dragon is a dangerous thing, young Malys. I will not deny you the opportunity to learn more about it. However … "

Malys thought She knew what he was thinking. "I don't think that'll be necessary," She replied, smiling a little. "As far as I can tell, what happened back there was just a one-off—you didn't give Me enough blood for it to be permanent."

Grimnir did not speak.

"And if I'm honest, I wouldn't have it any other way," Malys said, crossing Her arms defiantly. "If that's how it feels to be a Dragonborn, I'd much rather stay a vampire."

She turned away from Grimnir at that point, and only then did She notice Solyn's creations resting on the pavilion, next to the disabled Forge. An idea came to Her, then—an unspeakable idea, one that would no doubt prevent the civilized world from advancing thousands of years in only a few bounds. But the risks were too great, and they had all seen those risks for themselves—and Malys knew that this could not be allowed to happen again.

Nchubthngth had been right, if only in this, She thought—one Dagoth Solyn was indeed enough for this world.

The vampire felt Her body stiffen in resolve; the more She thought of this, the more She felt it had to be done. She took one step forward, then another, and in a few moments she was scant feet from the fused Spellbreaker-and-Keening.

Malys breathed in slowly, and concentrated on the three words She had heard in her mind in the last minutes of Solyn's life—the Words She had Shouted into being. She breathed again.

_Force._

Breathe.

_Balance._

Breathe.

_Push._

Breathe.

" _Fus … Ro **DAH!**_ "

The thunderous roaring noise echoed around the cave, and for the second time today, the blue mist burst from Her lips, carrying away everything in its path. The amalgamations Solyn had created—Sunder-and-Volendrung, Spellbreaker-and-Keening, Wraithguard and all his Aetherial accouterments—were carried high aloft by the force of the Shout, and into the lake of lava around them. The artifacts glowed and sizzled, then bobbed in the magma, before they finally sank beneath the molten surface without a trace. The duplicated Aetherium Forge, caught in the shockwave of Malys' final Shout, toppled into the lake almost in slow motion with surprisingly less clamor than She had imagined, and the vast machine disappeared into the magma with hardly a ripple.

Malys sighed as the last of the Forge and the artifacts was lost to sight. It felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from Her shoulders. The fire inside Her had finally been extinguished, expended in that last breath of Her Shout, never to be relit again.

The beast was no more.

"That's it, then—it's done," Malys said, so softly that She had to strain to hear Her own words. "It's all gone … "

* * *

How long it took them to leave Rkund, they did not know, and neither did they care. After everything the mages had been through, after everything they had achieved, the journey back seemed to pass by in the blink of an eye. Perhaps, if the circumstances had been different, they would have spent their return in celebration—but the reality could not be further than the truth.

Vinye had the look of a man in irons surrounded by rich food and drink, but unable to reach any of it to partake for himself. Malys could not blame her. The most momentous discovery of the last three eras—and what did she have to show for it? Nothing but their own experience, the word of a tortured shade who'd been tortured further still—and the damned _geasa_ the dwarves had placed on them. Without more than this, Malys knew the Altmer dared not claim the Dwemer were alive, well, and preparing to return. Even discussing the possibility would leave any chance of a favorable reputation as a scholar in complete tatters.

On Her other side, Cosette's round, pallid face radiated frustration. Malys could not look her in the eye—She could still feel something simmering inside the Breton. Much like the beast inside the blood Malys had ingested from Grimnir, that _something_ festered with a hot, burning anger. But there was nowhere else to turn—there were no other outlets for the Forsworn to direct her fury and fire. All that Cosette could do was to let it burn out over time.

Opportunity had slipped away from them all—even Grimnir, Malys suspected from the way the Arch-Mage carried himself, was not immune in this regard. As one of the most famous mages in Skyrim, perhaps even the entire of Tamriel, the Arch-Mage would have salivated at the chance to further study the results of the ingenuity She had destroyed and cast into that molten sea—even if those artifacts were indeed too dangerous to let survive. And even She had wasted an opportunity to learn more about the dragon blood She had briefly borne inside Her out of _fear_.

And yet … none of it seemed to bother Her too much. Because even after all they'd been through—after weeks of adventure, and of luck and loss alike—they were still _alive_.

And it was for this reason that, when the final door was flung open, and the world of Skyrim awaited them, Malys just stood there, letting the rays of the sun wash over Her face. She did not even care that She was undead, that the rays of the sun were anathema to Her now.

No matter who or what She was, it felt good to see daylight again.


	24. XXIII

XXIII

_Winterhold_

_Three days later_

A single torch burned in the nighttime, held aloft by a tough, gnarled hand. There were five coffins before the presider of the funeral ceremonies, laid out in a V pattern on the shoreline, facing the Sea of Ghosts.

Vinye and Malys stood, with many of the College of Winterhold, and even some of the townsfolk as well—including the Jarl and his family. Both elves' eyes stung with tears, and the coldness of the sea, and their faces were crusted with rime as they bowed their heads in silence. Everyone was dressed in black robes.

"Before the ancient flame," spoke the rough Nordic voice of the man holding the torch, reciting the traditional Nordic funeral incantation, "we grieve."

"We grieve," echoed the congregation around him.

"We grieve," whispered Malys and Vinye. None of them were interested in searching for Cosette; she had not been seen since the three mages and Grimnir had returned to the College. All attempts to visit her had been met with silence; the fiery Breton had refused to leave her room ever since they'd returned from Rkund.

"She must be taking it especially hard," Grimnir had guessed. "Best not to disturb her, I think. She is welcome to attend the funeral if she wishes to. If she does not, then let her grieve on her own time."

Then he had asked to have a word with Mistress Malys after the funeral was concluded. The vampire, perhaps for this reason, felt especially cold in this gods-forsaken place: the base of the spire on which was nestled the College. Every two seconds She stole a look at the impassive ebon mask of the Dragonborn, and wondered what he could be thinking at this moment. For Arch-Mage Grimnir's face—though who could say about his eyes?—had not strayed away from the man holding the torch ever since the funeral had started.

If it was Her place to say, Mistress Malys thought Grimnir was _scared_ of him.

"At this loss," the torchbearer continued, "we weep."

"We weep," echoed the congregation.

"For the fallen … "

"We shout."

Mistress Malys felt something twinge in Her insides once more upon hearing the word "shout," and felt something inside Her shrivel up at the memory of the power She had briefly wielded.

She chanced another look at Grimnir. No, nothing had changed, She thought; his expression radiated uneasiness, and his gaze had not strayed an inch from the man with the torch.

"And for ourselves … " concluded the speaker.

"We take our leave," finished the crowds.

At this last, the torchbearer finally moved, and lowered his flame upon the central coffin. Malys instantly knew Tolfdir was inside that coffin, and felt the shriveling sensation inside Her again. She wished—for what felt like the hundredth time this week—that She had gotten to know him a little better.

The rude wood of the coffin was just as crusted with sea spray as everyone else, and so it took a long while to set alight. When it did, though, the man nudged it just a little, pushing it out into the sea as it began to burn brighter.

Next came the other four coffins, each one containing the four students that had also died in Dagoth Solyn's assault: Malys had neglected to ask about Drevis Neloren, the sixth casualty of the attack. Brelyna had briefly mentioned taking custody of the illusion instructor's remains, and possibly bringing them back to Morrowind, presumably so he could be interred there. The four coffins were lit in slow succession—partially for deliberate effect, partially owing to the rime crusting the wood that made them as well. But they were all lit at length, and in short order, they followed Tolfdir's coffin out into the sea.

Mistress Malys stood there a long time, as did Vinye, and everyone else in attendance. Not one person—not even the Jarl's family, anxious as they looked—wished to leave at this moment in time. A great tragedy had been dealt to the College of Winterhold today. And although the town of Winterhold was often at odds with their own College, Grimnir had said in the eulogy earlier, they had been united here by the sacrifices that these five people had made.

Malys was grateful that he had not acknowledged Her or Her companions for the part they had played in all this.

She watched the five blazing coffins disappear into the far reaches of the sea—minutes, hours; She could not remember how long it took. But Her own blazing eyes had not strayed once from their retreating forms; and in that time, She had felt a small flicker of warmth in Her own self—not nearly enough to match the consuming thing that she had leeched from Grimnir, but much more pleasant.

It felt rather like … _hope_. Hope for Her own self … and hope, perhaps, for the world.

The rime around Her lips cracked as a small little smile began to unfurl. It did not waver until long after the sight of the five lights of flame had been lost to sight in the sea.

* * *

His role in the ceremonies now complete, the torchbearer extinguished his light, and stepped back from the shoreline.

It was sometimes said among the Companions that the only thing bigger than Varulf Blackmane's battleaxe was Varulf himself. Even without his armor, the High King of Skyrim stood well over six feet tall, and nearly a full head taller than Grimnir, but his iconic horned helm—which had once belonged to Yngol, son of Ysgramor, so the stories went—added nearly two feet to an already impressive stature.

Varulf's progression from a Stormcloak whelp to the most politically powerful figure in the province had taken all of two years. By all accounts, such a rise to power was staggeringly meteoric—although it was not without a fair share of controversy, either. For Ulfric Stormcloak, if a polarizing figure, had been considered a very charismatic character by both the Empire and his followers. Indeed, after learning of Varulf's challenge to the former Jarl of Windhelm and his subsequent victory, many Stormcloaks had deserted, and left to either settle down with their wives and children, or to pursue their own destinies elsewhere.

But Varulf had quickly proved to be a charismatic figure in his own right—in his mind, he was a throwback to an older time of Skyrim, when kings led their people from the front lines of the battlefield, rather than the safety and security of the throne. He styled himself one of those warrior-kings of the past, in the vein of men like Harald, Borgas, and Olaf One-Eye—even his armor, as well as the massive battleaxe currently slung over his back, had been fashioned in the ancient Nord style, to further emulate the men he considered heroes.

Only Grimnir, perhaps, had been the only person to see that Varulf—while loyal to the Stormcloak cause—had invested a far greater degree of loyalty elsewhere. The Arch-Mage had never seen him wearing any other kind of armor; Varulf, it was said, had even turned down the ceremonial bear-pelt armor worn by the Stormblade generals upon his promotion to that position. The Harbinger of the Companions fought for something older than the Stormcloaks—and indeed, perhaps, older than all of Skyrim as well.

Varulf, was—plain and simple—a patriot of _man_. Stories abounded that upon his accession to the throne, he had sworn a blood oath against all who wore their devotion to the Forsworn or the Thalmor on their sleeve—and damn anyone who would stand in his way: man, woman, or Dragonborn.

Which was why Grimnir was so uneasy—why Varulf Blackmane had been the last person he had expected to come here.

With the service concluded, the congregation dispersed and returned to Winterhold and the College, but Grimnir remained behind. He and Varulf had crossed paths several times in the past, and deep in his mind, the Dragonborn suspected that the High King had not come out all this way simply to preside over the funeral of his colleagues, his students … and his friends.

And sure enough, Varulf approached him at length, and performed a short, brief bow, enough so that his eyes were level with Grimnir's mask. "I am sorry, Dragonborn," he said gruffly, "that our next meeting had to come under such grim circumstances."

Grimnir said nothing.

"House Redoran has contacted me about your friend Drevis," Varulf went on. He wiped his eyes, bloodshot from the weather and what many said was a lack of sleep that bordered on perpetual insomnia. "They wish to take custody of his remains, and to bury him in Blacklight. You have no objections to this, I assume?"

For a moment, Grimnir debated telling Varulf that yes, he did indeed have an objection; Drevis had been dear to him, and he might have preferred to be buried on College grounds. But the Dunmer, with Brelyna's help, had helped the efforts to recolonize Morrowind grow by leaps and bounds. Perhaps, in time, the province would return to its glory days—before the Oblivion Crisis, before the Red Year. And Grimnir believed that day would come to pass—and that Drevis would no doubt want to see the results of his work.

Thus, he shook his head. "Tell them to make sure to bury him facing Vvardenfell," he told Varulf, who nodded back at him. "I will have Brelyna Maryon transport them over at her earliest convenience."

They stood there in silence for a long time, both wishing to say more to the other, but neither actually wanting to. Finally, Varulf broke the spell. "I would speak with you," he muttered, out of the hearing range of anyone nearby.

Grimnir heaved a massive sigh—he'd known this was coming. But he nodded, and turned away to make his way up to the College, indicating Varulf should follow him.

* * *

An hour later, the two Nords had retired to Grimnir's quarters. The Arch-Mage had already prepared a pot of tea, but Varulf had politely refused, instead draping his mail-and-bear-pelt cloak over a nearby chair, and proceeding to down an entire mug of mead in a single gulp.

"How has Solstheim been treating you?" Grimnir asked, as Varulf wiped the last drops of drink off the beard that earned him his name—a whole foot long, and so stiff and black as to be almost unnatural; it looked as though it had been dyed in pitch. "I hear that changes have been taking place at Thirsk thanks to you, and that the Skaal nearly lost one of their own to a Thalmor plot."

Varulf grunted. "Why those damned elves would want the knowledge of the Skaal is beyond me," he said, a little irritably. "However … _soft_ the Skaal may be, they are still Nords at heart, and the knowledge they possess is something not given out lightly—or by force. I can only hope that will be enough when the time comes."

Behind his mask, Grimnir furrowed his hairless brow. "Then you are still set on fulfilling the promise you made?"

"Yes," answered the High King. "True Nords never back down, after all. I will not go back on the offer I made you those years ago. But did you forget that we only agreed on the end result of that bargain? Whatever gets us there falls to me. And that's why I came to you."

His frown grew deeper. "Because after all, you have your _own_ promises to fulfill, don't you?"

It was only for an instant, and then it passed, and all was as it had been. But no other man except for Varulf could have been prepared for what happened next: Grimnir paused. The teacup he held began to rattle in his hand … and the words of Dagoth Solyn once again wormed their way into his head.

_Alduin will not only return, but be reborn … You've already taken the first steps towards the inevitable end … You don't have a choice … and you won't have the Elder Scrolls to save you this time …_

_Are you going to accept your fate? … Will you condemn this world to its destruction?_

"That is not something I can do anymore, Varulf," Grimnir eventually said. "I've learned a lot about myself in the time since we last spoke." The teacup, no longer trembling, was set back on its plate, and pushed aside.

"I know what I am now, and I know what you want me to become," Grimnir said, his voice much clearer—and dangerously level. "And if that happens, it won't only be Winterhold that's at risk of being destroyed—it won't only be Skyrim, either."

Flashes of memory surged through his mind: a desolate iceberg, the College of Winterhold, the nine holds of Skyrim, and the Throat of the World—all consumed in lightning and fire … and the shadow of that golden dragon.

_Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin!_

The Arch-Mage reached for his teacup again. "My answer is _no_ ," he said simply. "It was _no_ the first time, and until I decide otherwise, it will always remain _no_."

Varulf suddenly stood up, his boots hitting the floor with a loud _clang_. "Why do you hide and cower from your future, Dragonborn?!" he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. "Our two paths may differ, but our destinations remain the same! We both seek a world of peace. I know the path that lies ahead for me. But what about you?" He circled around the table until he was at Grimnir's side. "Do you know the path on which you are destined to walk?"

He leaned in closer. "Do you even know the ground on which you stand?"

It was Grimnir's turn to stand up, and he did so with so much force that the chair clattered to the floor, and the High King actually backed away a couple of paces. He was shorter than Varulf, but when push came to shove, there was no question who among them was more intimidating.

" _Know your place, Varulf!_ " the Arch-Mage hissed. A single wisp of blue mist appeared from the mouth of his mask. " _Dah ro fus_. Do not forget who first set you on the path to becoming High King."

His voice grew colder still. "Or what it will mean for Skyrim if you _fail_."

He clapped a hand to his mask, as if to whip it off and show Varulf the mutilated visage that lay behind it—but Varulf had already shrunk away from him, his reddened eyes watching warily, never breaking from the sight of the Arch-Mage.

"Good—you haven't forgotten," said Grimnir, with something that almost felt like satisfaction. He felt the fire of the dragon's soul inside him burning with pleasure, and immediately he regretted what had happened. The Dragonborn had cowed the man before him into complete submission—it was written all over the High King's face.

But that was the Dragonborn—and not the Arch-Mage of Winterhold.

 _Just another mask_.

Grimnir swiftly replaced Nahkriin, his ebony mask, with the carved moonstone face of Morokei. To the untrained eye, he had simply waved his hand, and his mask had appeared to change colors.

"I am as my father made me," he said, repeating the same words he'd told Solyn on that day beneath Rkund. "Nothing less, and nothing more. The time may come when I have no other choice but to accept. But until that day, I will forge my own path."

He looked the High King in the eye, and the High King stared down at him from his full height, neither Nord daring to even blink. "You already have one axe, Varulf," Grimnir said icily. "That is enough. I am not some ultimate weapon of Skyrim, to be used at the beck and call of her master—not of her people, and _certainly_ not of her _king_. And neither am I your loyal _bloodhound_."

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Grimnir swore he saw Varulf's eyes shift at the mention of the word bloodhound. For an instant, they flashed, and suddenly they did not look like the eyes of a man at all. They looked ferocious … almost bestial.

But the moment did not last, and eventually, Grimnir sat back down. "I thought you would have learned all this from the _first_ time I declined your invitation to join under Ulfric's banner," he said. The fire and ice had left his body, and he felt weaker now despite the tone of his voice. Not even a fresh cup of tea could help to dull the numbness that felt as if it was seeping into Grimnir's very soul.

A sudden cough from the entryway distracted the Arch-Mage. He turned to see Malys Aryon standing at the entrance to his quarters, looking very uncertain about something that Grimnir suspected was not his argument with Varulf.

Inwardly, he sighed in relief at the timing of the interruption. "You'll have to excuse me, Varulf," he said, putting as much weight into his voice as he could. "I have a prior engagement with one of my students here." _One that's been a while coming_ , he thought.

Varulf turned to look at Malys with one of the blankest expressions the Dragonborn had ever seen the High King wear, then back to Grimnir.

"All right," he said darkly. "But know this, Dragonborn: no matter what you call yourself—no matter how long you shut yourself away in this place—the world still calls you a hero. And heroes will always be destined for greater things in their lifetime. We will talk about this later … and for Tamriel's sake, I hope that you reconsider my offer."

And he strode out of the College, helmed head held high and mailed cloak billowing behind him, leaving Grimnir and Malys behind him.

Nervously, the vampire stepped forward. "You wanted to see me, Arch-Mage?" said the Dunmer.

"Sit down, Miss Malys," said Grimnir. "We have a lot to talk about … "

* * *

Eventually, life at the College began to return to normal, though there were many changes effected in the wake of this death and destruction. J'zargo had been named the permanent master of illusion at Winterhold, and Faralda was to succeed Tolfdir as the Master Wizard of Winterhold. Tolfdir's position as instructor of alteration, however, was not so easily replaced; for the time being, Grimnir would take on that particular responsibility, in addition to his duties as Arch-Mage, until he found someone who was—to use his own words—"better qualified than me."

None of it mattered to the three mages, however.

Cosette Ionsaithe would rather die than admit it, of course, but she had not been in the best of sorts ever since what had happened in Rkund. Vinye—when she herself wasn't brooding over that strange Dwemer contraption full of elven blood—had told her it was the lull after the storm. The three mages had seen real, _living_ Dwemer—only a handful of people in the known world had ever done such a feat. It was only natural, Vinye had said, to feel some sense of disappointment after all this—after all, where would one go from here, after seeing the sights they'd seen?

But the dwarves—amazingly—were not the foremost thought in Cosette's mind. She had not attended the funeral of Tolfdir and Drevis, ostensibly out of wishing to grieve in her own way. But in reality, she had felt that familiar anger returning to fester inside her: the same anger she had felt when facing Taron Dreth for the last time—the same desire for bloody revenge.

Solyn had cheated her again, she'd thought over and over. The Forsworn considered bloodshed an answer to bloodshed in every scenario. In particular, if a member of the family was killed, then that bloodshed had to happen at the hands of another of the family. Yet the Culler had been forced to watch as Taron Dreth, still gloating over how he had dispatched those Forsworn, Cosette's parents among them, was murdered at the hands of Solyn, not her own. That had been bad enough, to feel so cheated out of vengeance, and therefore she had steeled herself even further to kill Solyn—if she had, then perhaps her blood debt would be settled.

But again, Solyn had cheated her. He had _let_ himself be destroyed by the Daedra—there was no other reason why a wizard that powerful would die in such a way. Cosette had not killed him, therefore. The debt was still unpaid.

And now, the Culler was not sure where to go from here. She had felt herself retreating into her dormitory more and more often since coming back, and socializing with Vinye and Malys less and less. With each passing night, she was losing more sleep—she could hear the laughter of Taron and Solyn in her head, jeering her for her lack of action. It was just as well that things hadn't quite gone back to normal yet; otherwise, one of the staff might have looked into why she was missing classes and lectures.

"You should go outside," Vinye told her one night, during yet another one-sided conversation while Cosette buried her head under her pillow. "The air might help clear your head a little."

Cosette had snorted under her breath at this—fresh air wouldn't solve her problems. She needed someone to talk to—someone who could truly understand the searing anger she was feeling. Neither of the elves, although they had been more welcoming than she anticipated, would be able to help her.

Yet who on earth could? The obvious solution was to return to the Reach … to the Forsworn. But, again, the last Ionsaithe found herself undeniably, painfully alone. She was a Culler—and Cullers did not reveal themselves to the unsuspecting masses unless it was absolutely necessary that they do so.

"You don't find the Cullers," an old saying went. "They find you." No, Cosette thought, gritting her teeth as she dug her head further into the pillow; even if they could help her, it would take too long—too much time, too much effort. And there were many other affairs to set in motion as well—though what they entailed, only the other Cullers could possibly know.

However, at dusk one day—on the Morndas after the funeral—Cosette was distracted from her conundrum completely when Malys let them in on some unwelcome news.

"Y-you're leaving the College?" Vinye managed to stutter, after a few seconds of stunned silence following the Dunmer's announcement. A disassembled rucksack was already laid on Malys' bed, and she was busying herself with snatching everything within reach to pack it.

Cosette looked more confused than shocked as she continued to process this. "Did Grimnir expel you?" she asked.

Malys heaved a sigh as she tossed some robes and effects onto the large worn cloth on her bed. "It's a little bit more complicated than that," she said. "He thinks I'm a liability. I guess I should feel lucky, though—the Vigil of Stendarr would probably have tried to kill me, or experiment on me, or something like that, just to try and find out how I can gain someone's power through simply drinking his blood. And that's not mentioning other people."

The way she emphasized this reminded Cosette strongly of that one priest of Meridia.

Malys, meanwhile, crossed over to the alchemy station to gather a few potions and ingredients. "All things considered, it isn't so bad," shrugged the vampire. "For a while, I was worried the Dragonborn would want to kill me. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd killed another Dragonborn, he told me—even someone like me."

Cosette didn't bother asking about that last—her brain was still reeling from the news. Malys had only just arrived in Winterhold barely a month ago, she thought, and now she was being asked to leave just as quickly?

"You're not going to fight this?" she found herself asking. "You're just going to roll over and do his bidding?"

"He never really gave me much of a choice," said Malys with a snort, inspecting a selection of soul gems with a narrowed burning eye. She went through about a half dozen of every shape and size, frowning at each one, before shrugging and tossing them all onto the sheet. "Besides, like I said, he isn't expelling me outright. Call it an … indefinite leave, effective immediately. He wants me to get myself cured before he can consider taking me back on."

There was silence as the others processed this. "Malys," Vinye spoke up, as the vampire began to secure the corners of her makeshift pack, "you've never once regretted being a vampire, have you?"

Malys didn't even look up at her as she shook her head—and somehow, Cosette understood the implications.

"Where will you go from here?" the Breton asked, her voice sounding considerably softer than normal.

"Probably Morthal," Malys shrugged again, as she finished tying off her rucksack. "Someone lives there who's supposed to know an awful lot about vampires. Used to be with the College at one time, so chances are the Arch-Mage has already sent word ahead. I think I could learn from him—maybe understand what I am a little better."

She looked up at them. "But I don't plan on coming back here," she said resolutely. "I like what I am. And more than that—being a vampire gave me meaning in my life. Up till then, I didn't know what I was. I'd spent most of my life without a home, without a name—without any knowledge that I still existed. But when I woke up to _this_ … " She flexed her fingers, exhaling through her fangs. "I feel like a better person, now. I feel _whole_. And if the Dragonborn thinks he can take that away from me, then clearly he's not as powerful as he thinks."

Cosette felt a lump in her throat building up as Malys walked away from them, out the door of the hall, and out to Winterhold. A hundred emotions were tearing at her insides, trying to get out, being choked down—she had to speak now, or live with it forever—

"I'm leaving too."

Malys had just reached the top landing of the staircase. Both elves had now rounded on Cosette, blank shock written on their faces, and it was only at that point that she realized those words had been hers.

"I've … got some things to figure out in my life," the Breton finally forced out. "This whole business with Rkund … I feel _burnt out_. Like I'm not going to be doing much here again. Nothing worthwhile, anyway."

She stared at Vinye and Malys. "I liked being with you two, don't get me wrong," she conceded. "We did a lot of good work together, and that's not something I'm likely to hear myself saying again. But I really don't know where to go from here. I might head back to the Reach for a bit, go from there."

"With the Forsworn?"

Cosette had been expecting to hear this from Vinye, but that didn't make the sting of the question any less painful. "Yeah," she nodded, grateful that no one else was in the tower to hear. "I don't know if I'll be a Culler again, though. It's not exactly something you can just walk away from, but … "

Her mind faltered, as she tried to search for the right way to speak her thoughts. "I just need someone to talk to, help get all this stuff out from off my chest. Someone who isn't with Winterhold," she amended, as the elves both opened their mouths to speak. "Call it an … outside opinion."

The thought had only just now come to her. It was obvious, really. There was someone she could talk to—someone who wasn't affiliated with the Cullers, but trusted her enough to be able to tell her anything she wanted to know. The only problem was that Cosette had no idea if this person was still alive—but it wouldn't be too hard to find out.

Meanwhile, she and Malys had now turned to look at Vinye. The question went unasked, but both knew the Altmer was sharp enough to know why they were staring at her so intently.

"Well, I suppose with you two gone, there's not much point in me being here either, is there?" Vinye asked, raising an eyebrow in slight indignation. But then it was gone, and a small little smile appeared on her face.

"I don't know, though. I _might_ stay on a little longer," the elf confided. "Only as a scholar, though—I can't see myself doing much more adventuring like the sort we did together. But," she amended, "there's still a lot left to discover in Skyrim—and I'd still like to find as much of it as I can. Maybe I can write some books on what I've discovered, while I'm at it. _Someone_ has to make sure we don't forget the truth, after all."

Cosette noticed her looking at Malys quite intently; though the Breton was unsure what this last part might have meant, she assumed that Malys must have some knowledge of it. Sure enough, the vampire nodded in apparent understanding, before turning away from them and continuing on her way down the stairs.

But Malys hadn't gone three paces before she paused once more.

"Do you think we'll meet again?" she asked. "I'd like that, one day. I don't know if we'll be able to keep in touch—especially considering," she said to Cosette, "where _you_ plan on going. But maybe somewhere, years in the future, we can find a place to meet. I'm thinking the tavern in Whiterun—the Bannered Mare. It'll be just us and a few drinks. No more crazy assassins, no more Dwemer artifacts—and no more secrets to keep between the three of us," she smiled.

Cosette rubbed her cheek where Vinye had slapped her that one morning—it was amazing, she thought, how long ago that felt to her. It didn't sting anymore, of course, but the memory of the incident was still fresh in her mind.

For the first time in what felt like a very long time, the Breton smiled, and she felt the anger at Solyn and Taron dissipating—albeit not entirely—under the warmth of that smile. "You know … I'd like that," she said. "I just hope they don't water down their firebrand wine next time," she added with a chuckle, "because whatever happens after that is going to be their own damn fault."

"Just as long as you don't take it out on me," Vinye said severely, crossing her arms and fixing Cosette with a steely glare, showing her that the high elf would not forget that incident in the bar so easily, either. But it didn't take a sharp eye to see the ill-concealed smile that flitted across Vinye's face.

The trio pulled open the door that led out to the courtyard. It was strangely clear today; Masser and Secunda were rising in the sky, the light of the twin moons easily illuminating the town of Winterhold in the distance, and the jagged cliffs and mountains of rock and ice beyond. Vinye idly wondered if the Dragonborn had used his Voice to clear the skies for Malys and Cosette, to ensure them a safe journey—wherever it might lead them.

Malys pulled her hood over her head. "Well," she sighed, "I guess this is it. I'd hug, but … well, it's cold enough outside for you both, I think." She forced a grin at her own joke, and Vinye couldn't help but crack a smile herself.

Cosette, however, did not return any smile. "I don't really care for touchy-feely moments anyway," she said, her arms crossed. "I won't say goodbye—I'm only going to say _good luck_. We'll see each other again, I know it."

Then she grinned. "I'll make sure we meet again in Whiterun—even if I have to _hunt you down_ and drag you there myself to make it happen," she said with a wink.

Vinye, for only a moment, felt a twinge of unease at the choice of words. But Cosette's smile softened into something much more genuine, and the Breton extended her hand—the one with the splotchy burn on the palm. Vinye accepted the handshake, feeling the roughness of the flesh against her own.

Cosette and Malys did not shake, but merely looked into one another's eyes for a moment, as if sizing each other up. Then, the Forsworn turned on her heel, and set off on her way down the bridge.

Both elves watched her go before Malys eventually moved to follow in her stead.

"Malys?"

Vinye's question had come almost automatically—she hadn't even known it was on her lips. But the Dunmer had already turned around, one foot out of the gate, the other yet within.

Vinye swallowed as she looked Malys in the eye. " _Be careful out there_ ," she said softly, thinking of the priest of Meridia they had encountered, and the hunters he had claimed to be in league with.

The dark elf nodded. "I will."

And without any further exchange of goodbyes, the hybrid vampire turned on her heel, and walked out of the gate and onto the crumbling footbridge that led to Winterhold—leaving behind Vinye, who was now feeling substantially more _alone_ than she had ever remembered feeling in her lifetime.

* * *

Unbeknownst to the three mages, however, another pair of eyes was observing their farewells. The giant window of the Arcaneum that overlooked the courtyard afforded Grimnir Torn-Skull an unobstructed view of Malys Aryon traversing the precarious bridge to civilization.

"What is it about you that attracts people like them?" asked the old man to his right with a gruff sigh. The yellow robes covering his deceptively fragile form were emblazoned with a symbol Grimnir had never seen before, save in the tomes of his library: a shield wreathed in the fires of the sun. "Powerful mages, they are … powerful enemies, too, if you don't keep a close eye on them. I don't agree that you're simply letting releasing her into the wild."

"And who says that?" Grimnir asked, somewhat irritated, turning away from the window to regard his visitor. "Your instinct, or your Lady?"

The snow-white eyes of Lucius Anglinius blinked owlishly as he surveyed the scene below. "My experience," he said brusquely, looking sidelong at the Arch-Mage. "And yours as well, I would imagine. Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Grimnir stiffened at those words. He had heard them before.

Suleyk fen du unslaad …

_What if I was one of them?_

_The will to seek power is in our blood._

_… anyone who has ever desired power … should they be evil, too?_

Dov wahlaan fah rel.

"Arch-Mage?"

Grimnir brought himself back to reality as Lucius' gruff voice spoke once more.

"Forgive me," he said. "This has been a very … _rough_ ordeal for me, Master Anglinius." Abruptly, he strode for the staircase leading up to his quarters. "If you'll excuse me, there is something I must attend to."

Lucius followed him, sputtering. "But—my proposal!" he said, taking three steps for every two of Grimnir's as the two men reached the Arch-Mage's quarters. "I have come all the way from the Rift for this moment, Arch-Mage! My organization has been licking our wounds for too long in that desolate fortress! The time is now upon us for action—but we need your expertise!"

"Master Anglinius, you will hold your tongue!" Grimnir rumbled as he spun around to face the priest of Meridia—and the stones of the College seemed to tremble with his words. "I do not care how powerful an enemy you are poised to meet. I _will not_ be your ultimate weapon against them!"

Unexpectedly, Lucius smiled back. "The Dawnguard has all the weapons they need to fight the taint of the vampire menace," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "We do not need your services in _that_ regard, Dragonborn. But many of these weapons remain undiscovered; they are yet to be researched. Surely you would accept the chance to advance the course of knowledge in our—"

He had said the wrong thing. Grimnir's gnarled hand reached out and caught Lucius by the robe, and swung him—hardly delicately—into the wall directly under the massive window.

" _Do not talk to me about knowledge!_ " snarled the Arch-Mage. "It is because of knowledge that I chose to hide myself from the world. It is because of _knowledge_ that I have become the monster I once destroyed!"

His hand trembled, and released Lucius from his iron grip. "It is because of _knowledge_ ," he hissed, "that I see the mortalkind—both men and elves alike—for what they really are. They have no regard for the world around them—only the world they choose to see. Varulf may yet prove to be a strong leader in his own right, but today he is no better than the rest of them. His vision is his very weakness—and unless he learns to see beyond the world he sees, then Skyrim will be nothing more than a fleeting shred of memory in the _dead_ and the _dying!_ "

And with that, Grimnir Torn-Skull turned on his heel, and swept away from Lucius. "Look to your own borders, and I will look to mine," he said shortly as he climbed up to the topmost spire of the Hall of the Elements. "The rest of the world will take its own course from there."

He stopped suddenly—he'd almost forgotten. "Oh, and Master Anglinius," he added. "Apology accepted."

And without bothering to look behind him at the Imperial priest, he'd thrown open the door to the parapet, into the bitter chill of the air that hit him like a frozen wall.

He inhaled that freezing air, and roared to the heavens. " _ODAHVIING!_ "

* * *

Less than a mile away, Mistress Malys and Cosette were trudging through the snow-covered cobblestone road when they heard it—a bellowing roar in the distance, somewhere from behind and to Malys' left. She whirled around just in time to see a massive winged shape soaring barely a house's length above Her head with hardly a sound at all.

Her eyes, wide and round and bright as molten coins, pierced through the sudden veil of choking fear that had clouded Her mind as the dragon approached. She saw the familiar ridges and spikes, the blood-red coloration of the same dragon She had once mounted with Vinye and Cosette … a whole week that felt like a lifetime ago.

And astride it, the mage whose blood Malys had briefly shared, and whose terrible power She had briefly wielded.

If the mask of Grimnir Torn-Skull had noticed either of them standing there in awed, silent shock, even Her eyes could not tell, and so Mistress Malys did not wave, nor give any other sign that She was standing there. Cosette, She noticed, was avoiding looking at the sight entirely— _had she even broken stride?_ Malys wondered—and was continuing on her way without any regard for her surroundings.

Malys thought about catching up with her and asking what was wrong, but something was holding Her back.

She continued to stand there, long after dragon and Dragonborn had disappeared over the horizon, due south for a destination known only to them.

Malys smiled at the sight of the Last Dragonborn, the faceless protector of Skyrim … and yet, as she followed Cosette—now a shrinking speck of tan against the endless snow drifts—and continued on Her journey west to the town of Morthal, She could not help but feel a slight shiver of trepidation.

How, She could not tell—but a part of Her _knew:_ in time, they would all be meeting again.

* * *

Cosette, meanwhile, had hardened herself both physically and mentally to fend off the driving cold. She had dressed particularly for this day—not necessarily the robes she wore, but what lay _under_ them more than anything.

There was no turning back now, she knew. Her path had already been set before her. She could only hope Malys was smart enough not to follow her for too long. The Breton chanced a look back at the vampire behind her, and felt a twinge of sadness slice through her insides; Malys was nothing more than a shrinking point of black robes.

The road curved sharply right at length, and Cosette remembered only now that they had once passed through this point to get to Rkund, as a possible shortcut. She remembered the trolls they had fought near the ruins there, and the ancient wispmother that called them home. It was here, she thought, that they had taken the first steps of getting to know one another.

Here, they had become more than students, but friends as well.

Cosette sighed. It was a pity that such things couldn't last under the circumstances.

But as she continued to look downward at the snow-covered ruins, a thought took hold of her. Cosette Ionsaithe was not typically given to reminiscing about the past, nor was she particularly one to cherish memories. She was part of the Forsworn, and as long as she lived— _survived_ —with each passing day, the Forsworn lived with her. That was enough memory for her to get by in life.

But even so—even knowing the path that lay before her—Cosette was also not one to go quietly into the night, and vanish into Oblivion with hardly so much as a last gasp. One more stroll along this thread of her life, she decided. Yes … one more chance to relive the first of the chain of events that had led her to this point.

Cosette left the road there, and took a step down the rocks, then another, and then a third. As she walked further down the hillside, she could hear the echoes of the wispmother's shrieks in the back of her mind—cold as ice even in her memories—and smell the stench of burned troll hair and her own mage-fire. She let the memories wash over her, like the winds of the Reach.

For that one moment, after everything Cosette Ionsaithe had been through … all was finally good in her life.

* * *

The highest mountain in all of Skyrim—and now, all of Tamriel, since the eruption of Vvardenfell—had almost as many names as that ancient and terrible volcano. To the Akaviri it was Snow-Throat, the Snow Tower. To the dragons, it was the _Monahven_ , the "Mother-Wind." And to the Nords, it was the Throat of the World, the site of Alduin's initial defeat in the Dragon Wars of old, and the home of the reclusive Greybeards.

But to a special few, it was something else entirely: _home_.

Grimnir Torn-Skull's boots crunched in the hardened crust of snow as he trekked his way upward, and the wind howled around him with the chill of a death rattle. He adjusted the dark-green mask tighter around his malformed face as he continued towards his destination.

Odahviing had already flown on without him, and the red dragon now circled the mountain listlessly, looking over all of Skyrim and the world beyond. But Grimnir's mind was focused elsewhere—specifically, on the sole occupant of the summit of this lonely mountain.

He remembered the last time he had been here, of how he had left the aged green dragon ahead of him, not even bothering to look back. Grimnir had felt ashamed of himself after that moment, and he could feel the shame welling up inside his throat once more like bile as he stared at the pitiful sight.

Paarthurnax did not look as if he had moved an inch ever since that fateful day. The cracked horns and battered spikes that covered every scale on his body were crusted with snow. His leathery wings looked more tattered than ever, to the point where Grimnir was pondering if the ancient dragon could ever fly again.

As he grew closer, the snow under his feet gave a particularly loud crunch. Immediately, the dragon's neck shifted at the noise, and Grimnir heard the horrible popping of disused joints as Paarthurnax turned to face him.

" _Drem yol lok … Dovahkiin_ ," rumbled the master of the Greybeards. His dragon-speech was as slow and stilted in age as the rest of his body, but behind the tremors and shakes of every syllable lurked the unquenchable flame of his spirit.

And Grimnir, somehow, knew that Paarthurnax had not given up on him—even when he himself had done the unthinkable. The old dragon had not been brooding here … he had been _waiting_ for him to return.

The Arch-Mage felt a sudden upsurge of affection for the dragon, and he bent double in deferential respect to his elder. " _Drem haal viik, Paarthurnax,_ " he responded. "It has been a long time … my old friend."

Paarthurnax alighted on the snow before him with hardly a sound. And as the snow began to swirl around them, Grimnir Torn-Skull felt the Words flow from his mouth as he began to converse with the only one he could ever truly call his Master. For Paarthurnax, now, was the only one who could give him the answers to a new set of questions in his life—riddles of the Dragonborn's uncertain future, that he wanted so desperately to be solved …

* * *

_West of Windhelm_

_The next day_

The city had already shrunk behind her as the carriage clattered over the cobblestones. Vinye had begun packing her own effects not long after seeing Malys off—enough food, potions, and magickal supplements for a weeklong voyage into a Dwarven keep. The Altmer wasn't too fond of lingering around for longer than she felt comfortable—and besides, she had a feeling that Malys might be right; perhaps this would not be the last time the three mages encountered each other.

The three passengers riding with her were hardly talkative, in the meantime, which annoyed Vinye a little—indeed, the elf had hardly heard them speak since she'd clambered onto the carriage outside Windhelm and seen them on board already. They were also clad in very thick clothes that hid almost all flesh—they must not be from around here, she thought, and were therefore not used at all to the extreme cold in this part of the province.

Luckily, however, she had her own thoughts to entertain her—and Vinye had every intention on following through with her intentions to keep on studying the secrets of Skyrim. As a matter of fact, her destination wasn't too far away from here—or, at least, the entrance to it. The immense, naturally lit cavern Grimnir had called Blackreach kept on tempting her to uncover whatever lay within.

She leaned forward to the carriage driver. "I'll be needing to disembark in a mile," she told him. "You need not come back for me."

"Sorry, ma'am," said the man at the buggy. "This carriage goes straight to Solitude. No stops."

Vinye frowned at this—that was highly irregular. "Who told you this?"

The driver shrugged. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't have a problem with it," he told her. "But those three behind you were very insistent I take them directly to the stables of Solitude. No stops for anything or anyone, they said."

Vinye considered just making a break for it. The snow was deep enough off the shoulder of the road that it might be able to cushion her fall at a standing leap. The Altmer glanced back at the three people in the seats next to her, their faces practically mummified in scarves and coats. There was something that wasn't sitting right with her—some sixth sense in her head was buzzing nonstop.

"Why just the stables?" she decided to ask—she knew the layout of Skyrim's capital city; it was a fair hike from the stables to the gates of the city proper. "Why not take them to Solitude outright?"

"Because we're not going to Solitude," said one of the other passengers for the first time, as he removed his coat.

Revealing a familiar shade of ornate dark blue.

It all happened in an instant; Vinye only realized the man had a thick Altmeri accent at the exact moment one of his companions sent a firebolt at the carriage driver, incinerating him on the spot. Meanwhile, his other cohort had reached out with an arm, and grabbed Vinye by the wrist in an iron grip. The horse neighed in fear at the chaos unfolding within the cart, and tried to break free, but almost immediately, the third elf reached out with his free arm and sent a calming spell at the horse, which returned it to its normal canter on the road.

 _Thalmor_ , Vinye thought; her confusion was now quickly turning into a rapidly rising panic. _They're all Thalmor!_

_I've been caught!_

It had all seemed so flawless, but in hindsight, Vinye was kicking herself. She'd been thinking too much about Winterhold, she'd forgotten why she'd come there in the first place—why she'd been on the run at all.

And now, fate had cruelly reminded her why.

"We've been looking for you for a long time, Vinye," said one of the elves as he pulled off his thick coats, revealing impeccably trimmed blond hair and greenish-gold skin, beneath the standard blue robes of a Thalmor Justiciar. "Your mother's been very worried about you."

Vinye felt her breath catch in her throat—she had not been expecting this. _My mother … she knew about me? All this time?_

And then her eyes narrowed. _No one must know._

It was like Falinesti all over again; Vinye's body began surging with incredible power—first a spark, then several, and finally an entire shower of electricity spilled from her body. But there was one major difference.

Vinye was no longer a child. She was finally in control.

 _No one can_ ever _know._

Vinye's captor pulled back instinctively, but by then it was too late. The high elf shrieked a cry that embodied all the rage against the family she had come to hate, against the career she had long since spurned—and the monsters who would dare to make her one of their own.

Her world exploded in blue light and thunder and white fire, and for an instant, Vinye thought the heat from it all might have eclipsed that of Magnus' sun. But the next instant, the light had sound had faded away, the world around her had returned—and there was nothing left of the Thalmor—or the carriage, or even its horse and driver—save a few piles of ash blowing in the wind, and the tattered remains of the clothes they had once worn in life.

The lead Justiciar, however, had survived by the skin of his teeth, managing to leap out of the carriage just quickly enough to escape Vinye's lightning—but not quickly enough to escape injury. He had hit the road at considerable speed, and his right leg and left arm were sticking out at odd angles as a direct result. The Thalmor howled in pain as he tried to bring himself up to his feet. He reached out his good hand, hoping to cast a deadly spell—

—only to feel it stamped down on the ground by Vinye's foot.

The Altmer could feel her leaf-green eyes blazing with fury as the Thalmor's bones crunched beneath her boot. But behind this veneer of homicidal intent, a plan was taking shape in Vinye's mind—an impossible, insane plan. If she followed through, it would most likely lead to her doom.

But … if it would give her the closure she had sought ever since that day in Falinesti, then she would gladly take it.

The high elf peered down at the hapless Thalmor. "If my mother is so worried about her only child," she said in a lethal whisper, colder than the north wind, "then it's only right I should pay her a visit, isn't it?"

The Thalmor was silent.

" _Isn't it?!_ " Vinye screamed at him, spittle flying from her mouth.

Wordlessly, the Thalmor nodded.

"I'm going to kill you for what you've done," said Vinye coldly, "and nothing you say or do is going to change that. But I might show you some measure of mercy, if you can answer me one question: _Where. Is. My. Mother?_ "

"Why should I tell you?" spat the Thalmor. "You've already said you're going to kill me, no matter what!"

Vinye smiled. "Wrong answer." She raised her hand, and sparks of lightning poured from her fingertips, raking the Thalmor with destructive energy. He screamed in anger and agony as the shocks rebounded through his body.

"I'm not going to stop," said the vengeful elf, as her lightning continued to spark and sizzle in the air, and the Justiciar continued to squirm on the ground before her. "I'm going to keep on doing this until you tell me what I want to know. You can either die a quick and merciful death … or a slow and _excruciatingly_ painful death. And if that doesn't turn you," she added with a smirk, "I have a _couple of friends_ who wouldn't hesitate to make your demise both quick and painful.

"Now," Vinye said, increasing the torrent of lightning further still, "would you like to hear the question again?"

The Thalmor was screaming so loud that it was a wonder the High King didn't hear this, Vinye thought. Idly, she wondered what he would think of the prospect of torturing this miserable wretch of an elf.

"All right, all right!" said the Thalmor all of a sudden. "All right! I'll tell you!"

Vinye smiled. She did not cease her assault, but she toned it down enough to where the sizzling noises of both her lightning and the sizzling flesh of the Justiciar no longer drowned out her voice.

She only spoke two words, almost inaudible against the sparks: "Tell me."

The Thalmor told her.

She smiled—a genuine, heartfelt smile this time. For once, this Thalmor had done something useful in his life. Maybe it would redeem him in the eyes of the Divines. Maybe.

But even then, she felt a sour taste in her throat, and the corners of her mouth turned down. It was too late for him now. He was a Justiciar; gods only knew how many atrocities he'd been involved with across Tamriel. Killing him would accomplish nothing in the grand scheme of things.

But that wasn't what Vinye was concerned about right now.

For only a moment, the sparks on her fingers flickered and died, and the Altmer closed her eyes in thought. But just when it looked like the Justiciar was beginning to believe that he might just be spared, Vinye's eyelids snapped open, and her lightning burned brighter and more terrible than ever before. The Justiciar coughed once, his eyes crossing to see the perfectly round hole that had just been burned dead center between them—and toppled over, dead. Vinye was only just able to see the Justiciar's mouth, frozen in a silent scream of horrified realization, before he disintegrated into more fine ash. Very little of the Thalmor remained to accumulate upon the road; everything else was blown away by the wind.

What happened after that, Vinye thought, must surely have been the result of divine intervention: the uniform of the Justiciar fluttered on the wind, and right on top of her boots. Somehow, it had not been vaporized with its owner. In fact, not a single inch of the royal blue fabric had suffered so much as a singed edge. Whether this was because of enchantments woven into the cloth, or sheer dumb luck, Vinye could not fathom—but neither did she care.

She picked up the robes, gingerly ran her fingers over its hood and sleeves—and smiled.

Blackreach could wait, she decided, as she retrieved the rest of the Thalmor's effects. It was time she stopped running away.

It was time she told the _truth …_

* * *


	25. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

_The Rift_

To any man, elf or beast with an ear to put to the ground, there had been a new name sweeping the underworld of Tamriel lately: Redwater. Billed as Skyrim's best place to get a fix on all manner of drugs, narcotics and other addictive compounds, Redwater Den had grown up almost overnight, operating out of a burning house. At least, that was how it appeared on the outside, anyway, before the armored city guard patrolling the area would muscle the overly curious in another direction.

But she knew the truth.

As she navigated her way through the deliberately ruined wooden floor at a nod from the so-called guard, she could see the smoke and choking atmosphere came from pots of burning rubbish hidden under the floorboards, and she'd long since known that the city guard was nothing more than a glorified bouncer. Whether he was a legitimate guard or not was a popular rumor in some circles—but that mattered little to her.

She clambered down the trap door, not even bothering to pay attention to the doorman as he launched into an obviously rehearsed warning to keep her weapons where they belonged, or they'd be getting "better acquainted." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she crossed the threshold, ignoring the loud coughing noises that pervaded the area beyond—and the doorman's suspicious gaze at the satchel slung over her back.

Immediately, the atmosphere turned into a choking haze—but it was a different kind of choking than the elaborate hoax put on upstairs. Here, the smoke did not burn at the eyes and throat, but seemed to tickle instead, and she caught a whiff of something metallic as well—even the cloth covering her mouth did little good against the miasma. She grimaced; she'd been alive long enough to know what that particular smell was, and she fought the urge to murder everyone in this room for acting like such degenerates.

A Nord in her twenties—but who'd apparently spent long enough in places like these that she looked three times older—walked up to her. "Looking for a fix? Just pick your poison," she said in a scratchy laugh that made her want to stick a dagger in the woman's throat.

But she suppressed the temptation, and stepped forward, keeping a close hand on her satchel.

"Venarus Vulpin," she said in a gravelly whisper, almost unnoticed over the hacking coughs. "Find him. _Now_."

The wizened young Nord narrowed her baggy eyes. "Who wants to know?"

Her answer came in the grisly form of a decapitated head, dumped unceremoniously on her counter from the satchel on her shoulder. A metal broach in the form of a spiky, eight-point star had been stuck into the forehead of the unfortunate vampire—for his yellow eyes and cleft lips could be found on no other man.

This sight had a powerful impact on the dealer, who muttered "One moment," and scurried away.

Her eyes scanned the room furtively. Once she knew no one was watching, she reached behind the counter and lifted a small red bottle from the shelf below. She uncorked the bottle surreptitiously, sniffed at it once, and grimaced again. The smell of skooma was always noticeable, but there was something else as well—that metallic smell. _Like blood_.

She pocketed the bottle just in time for the dealer to come back. "Master Vulpin is away on business, procuring more ingredients for our mixtures," said the Nord. "He'll be back by week's end if you're willing to wait. But if it's that urgent, then I can point you to the Pale—he did say he'd be passing through there."

This made her raise an eyebrow. _So they haven't heard_. She looked around the hazy den—it was possible the dealer didn't know what they were actually selling in those tiny red bottles. This entire den had been a front for Venarus' _real_ business—and scores, if not hundreds of people had drunk that excuse for poison.

She walked away without a word, ignoring the dealer's shouts to remove the severed head off her counter. Her expression did not waver until the destroyed exterior of Redwater Den was out of her sight. Then, she pulled out the red bottle she'd stolen, sniffed it once more—and then hurled it against a nearby tree, shattering the bottle and spilling its contents.

* * *

_The Pale_

_Two days later_

Mistress Malys had had a very strange day.

Some time after parting ways with Cosette and Vinye, She had decided to make her way to Morthal, recalling that Lucius had mentioned a man who lived there—an expert on vampires who was capable of extracting the affliction from a mortal's body.

Of course, She had no intention of giving this gift up. But Malys' hybrid nature had given rise to many questions over the past few days. She had not told either of the others about this of course—even Grimnir had remained in the dark—but She was beginning to lose sleep over these questions. More specifically, She was becoming concerned that being half-Volkihar, half-Quarra was beginning to turn against her. They were two powerful bloodlines in their own right, after all, and Malys had believed that if She had been weaker, she would have been consumed by the furious battle inside her. But she was strong—and She had become stronger now.

At least, that was what She had thought.

She had to know—was it possible that the same set of circumstances that had made her one of the most powerful vampires in Skyrim could still destroy Her? She had no answer to this—and it was her hope that this mysterious man in Morthal did.

But the burning dwelling that She had come across earlier this morning had dispelled all those questions—especially since several bodies in the wreckage were revealed to be vampires—Volkihar vampires, no less. It struck her how much She looked like them—they had the same same cleft faces, and eyes that burned even in death.

The others were Vigilants of Stendarr, and a closer inspection of the ruined building revealed this to be one of their bases—perhaps even their headquarters. There were far more bodies of Vigilants here, desecrated and marked with blasphemous sigils in their smoldering flesh, and She had guessed that they had come off as the losing side.

 _Weak_ , She had thought.

There had been footprints in the snow leading away from the massacre, and they led Her towards a mountain holdout not far away. There were more bodies here, She had discovered—Vigilants and vampires alike—and there were much more of the latter than the former. Perhaps this had been a base of theirs before the Vigil had cleaned it out—and the vampires had retaliated by burning the Vigil's nearby hall to the ground.

Along the way, she had met a man—another vampire, as it turned out, an Imperial with a decidedly foxlike appearance. He had introduced himself as Venarus Vulpin, and he told her that he was responsible for most of the dead bodies inside this crypt. As to why he had come, Venarus did not say, but Malys could tell that this was no ordinary vampire, either. He was strong—perhaps almost as strong as She was … an _equal_.

And so they had proposed to work together; Malys had been overjoyed to find someone like Her at last. Perhaps, if She was lucky, Venarus was a master vampire—one with his own clan, where Malys could live and thrive among more of Her kind.

Yet as they now stared at the massive construction before them—the bodies of yet more vampires and Vigilants bleeding at their feet—Malys still had no idea what Venarus was after in here. But one thing She was certain of was that it must be important. The cave was immense, dwarfing even the gigantic circular pavilion as large as the College's courtyard—an island in a subterranean lake.

"After they massacred the Vigilants, the surviving vampires fled with several manuscripts on this crypt," Venarus explained. "Apparently, something was buried deep beneath this place—an ancient artifact that was deeply coveted by the Volkihar for almost as long as they've existed."

"And that something is _here_ ," Malys guessed, staring at the structure. She saw Venarus nod. "So what now?"

Venarus pointed towards the center of the pavilion, where a short pillar topped with a rusted metal spike stood. One of the vampires they had killed was slumped against it. "That must be some sort of switch," he mused. "If there is indeed a vampire artifact here, then maybe … "

Venarus straightened suddenly, and walked toward the spiked pillar. He pulled off one of his black gloves, exposing chalk-white skin—

—just in time to catch the black arrow streaking from behind both vampires between his index and middle fingers.

Malys did a double take, and She whirled around every which way—only to find the cavern empty. But that only infuriated Her more.

 _Where had that arrow come from?!_ They had entered this cavern alone—She was certain of that! Her eyes flitted to the arrow—polished ebony with a heavy pointed tip for punching through armor, and spiral fletching to make it fly straighter and farther than any other arrow. And if Venarus had not caught that arrow in time, Malys had no doubt it would have made a nice, clean hole dead center through his skull.

The Dunmer couldn't resist a shudder. _This was an assassin's arrow_.

Venarus, for his part, was smiling. "Not many people can sneak up on me," he called out, showing his fangs in an approving smile as he turned around to face apparently thin air. "Come on out—I know you're in here!"

For a few moments there was silence. Then Malys saw a thin, dark shape emerge from a pillar overlooking the other end of the bridge—a female, clad head to toe in form-fitting red-and-black leather. It looked quite like the catsuit some thieves were known to wear, and covered most of this woman's flesh, save for her eyes. A number of daggers were strapped to her chest (Malys counted at least four) and She could see an ornate ebony bow over the woman's shoulder as well, with several more arrows resting in a quiver—presumably with the same spiral fletching as the one Venarus had just caught in his hand.

The woman walked towards them, and even in the darkness of the cave, Malys saw the huge black eyes of the figure, set like empty sockets in her skull—and that was more than enough for Her to know who she was.

"Rolega." She grinned, exposing the tips of Her fangs. "I was wondering when I'd see you again."

The woman blinked, but made no indication as to whether or not she was expecting Malys to recognize her.

"Malys … " she spoke for the first time—a soft, slightly strained hiss, like invisible razors were itching at the Nord's ruined throat. But there were two things that made Malys uneasy: one was that she could hear an undertone in the thief's voice that did not sound entirely like hers; deep and throaty, like freshly greased velvet.

And yet, more importantly, even though Rolega the Quiet was a whole ten feet away from Malys, that velvet hiss seemed to whisper right into Her ear; it was almost as if there was a second voice speaking for her.

"I'm glad to see You're alive and well … _mostly_ ," Rolega said with a thin chuckle. "That's more that can be said for Solyn, isn't it?"

Malys frowned. "How do you know about him?" Then, as an afterthought, "And it's _Mistress_ Malys now, by the way. You should remember that if you don't want me to _punish_ you." She bared Her fangs in a smirk.

Rolega was not fazed by the threat in the slightest. "It's my business to know who lives and who dies," she said shortly. "Which reminds me."

The Nord strode forward, turning her attention to Malys' companion. "Venarus Vulpin," she whispered silkily. "Your name's been thrown around quite a bit in my circles. That Redwater skooma you brew is quite the popular drink."

The cloth covering Rolega's face wrinkled slightly, as her cheeks curled up in a smile. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Venarus looked confused. "I beg your pardon?"

The thief's smile grew wider. "I murdered Venarus Vulpin three weeks ago."

 _What?!_ Malys whirled back at the Imperial behind Her.

Venarus smiled widely—and then, to Her further astonishment, he began to change. His hair was lightening from jet black to straw blond, and lengthening as well; his stomach shrank, while his chest expanded and divided into two pronounced breasts. As this all happened, something long, dark, and very thin grew from Venarus' hand, expanding into an ornate, decorated staff topped by a carving of a mutilated horned skull.

Mistress Malys watched in unmitigated shock as within a matter of seconds, an Imperial female took shape before Her. The woman was an imposing figure; six feet tall, and resplendent in heavy purple robes, with long blonde hair hanging down to her lower back. She might have been beautiful if it wasn't for the slightly starved look on her face, and her very strange eyes. Her right eye was pink, and burned in such a way that Malys instinctively knew she was yet another vampire. Her left eye, however, was a pure milky white—but the violet, hook-shaped tattoo that seemed to skewer that sightless orb made Malys think that eye was anything _but_ sightless.

When Rolega next spoke, she was clearly very impressed. "My father has given me a wonderful boon," she laughed, clearly grinning under her hood. "I come to investigate a shady skooma den, and who should the trail lead me to but _Mistress_ Malys Aryon … and none other than Carmilla Anglinius."

Malys' mouth fell open. _Anglinius?_! She thought madly. _That woman is—?!_

_Keep Your claws off my daughter._

"That priest of Meridia is your _father_?!" She shouted incredulously.

The woman called Carmilla spat. " _Was_ my father," she hissed in a contralto that reverberated around the cavern. "Speak of him again, and I'll kill you before I kill _him_."

The hand not clutching her strange staff twitched and glowed purple, and almost absentmindedly, Carmilla began twirling the ethereal flaming dagger that she had conjured just now. Malys eyed the jagged blade with some unease; something in the vampire's tone told Her that she was not bluffing.

"It's ironic that you should bring up your father," Rolega said with a gurgling chuckle. "I know him quite well. Did you know he prayed to my mother for nearly ten years before my brothers and sisters listened to him?"

 _Prayed to her mother?_ Something about that didn't sound right to Malys. Carmilla seemed to understand well enough, though—and she did not sound happy about it, judging by her condescending snort in Rolega's direction.

"So you're telling me my father loved me so much that he went to the _Dark Brotherhood_ to bring me back?" sneered Carmilla. "'Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me'—for I am lost and lonely and oh-so- _terrified_ of dying alone! If I wasn't a vampire, I'd be sick to my stomach that he'd sink so low as to go to _your_ kind!"

 _The Dark Brotherhood?_ Suddenly Malys' head was spinning—now it all made sense. She whirled on Rolega. "You're an assassin?!"

" _The_ assassin," Rolega corrected Her, her smile wider than ever. "I Listen for my Night Mother, and I kill for my Dread Father."

"And you've killed a lot of people, too, haven't you?" Carmilla said. "Amaund Motierre of the Elder Council, Emperor Titus Mede II, even the famous Maven Black-Briar—so I can only imagine the most wanted woman in Tamriel wants to kill me, too." She smirked. "You can go ahead and try."

" _You_ killed Maven Black-Briar?" Malys blurted out before She could stop Herself. "But you told me the Tong—"

"They did," Rolega said cryptically. "It was one of the better jobs I've helped to arrange in my time, and if I say so myself, it's quite the tale—maybe if you're lucky, you'll get to hear it sometime. My only regret is that I didn't kill her myself." Her sibilant voice turned bitter at this.

"But that's enough of that," said the assassin. "It's time we moved on to the matter at hand. I've been tracking you for a long time, Carmilla. You've taken on a lot of faces since you killed those three vampires—priests of Mara, underground drug lords. But your father became desperate. Some years ago, he prayed to my Mother, and when I came to answer his pleas, he promised me a _very_ considerable sum if I brought you back to the Imperial City alive."

Carmilla's bound dagger disappeared, and she leveled her staff at Rolega; the mouth of the skull glowed with dark red energy. "Sorry," said the changeling. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm not giving you a choice," Rolega smirked. "You've already confessed to killing your captors—and while I'd love to say that makes my job easier, that only means you have that much more to answer for. Did you know that the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order declared you a traitor for what you did to them?"

Carmilla didn't even bat an eye. Malys had a feeling that this Imperial did indeed know—she just didn't _care_.

"Well, it doesn't stop there," said Rolega. " _I_ was the one your father commissioned to kill those vampires, not you. Which means you stole what was, by all rights, an official Dark Brotherhood contract. I can't let that slide today—not after I've been searching for you this whole time. And _You_ , _Mistress_ Malys."

 _What did_ I _do?_ Malys thought in surprise—flailing for answers, but failing to find a one.

"The fraud Taron Dreth was _also_ marked for death," Rolega explained, crossing her arms. "Unfortunately, poor Katria never lived to see her contract fulfilled. But that's not important; what _is_ important is that Taron— _another_ official Brotherhood contract—was killed by Solyn, who was in turn killed by You and Your associates. The Night Mother is _very_ displeased with You for this. Since you three are the only known witnesses to these events, she has declared _all_ of you targets by proxy as a result of your interference in Brotherhood business."

Malys bit Her lip until Her fangs punctured the gums beneath. Now it all made sense—Rolega hadn't been tracking the mages to and from Arkngthamz, she'd only been after Taron! But did that mean Rolega was now after Vinye and Cosette, too?

Again, however, it seemed that Rolega held all the answers. "However," she went on, "the whereabouts of Your friends are … _unknown_ at present. But Sithis will see them before me eventually. Until then … well, let's just say this might not be Your lucky day." She laughed coldly.

Malys cocked Her head, puzzled. "It _might_ not be?"

"I'm a firm believer in aggressive expansion," smirked Rolega. "The Brotherhood is small, but we are already stronger than we have been in centuries. And yet we still have potential to grow."

"Get to the point already," Carmilla groused. "You Brotherhood types always _did_ like to hear yourselves talk."

"I'm simply offering you two a chance to join the Dark Brotherhood—to join myself and my dark brothers and sisters in service to Sithis for eternity." The assassin's smile was as sweet as poisoned honey. "Vampires like you would feel right at home."

Malys didn't like the sound of that. The chance to be with others like Her was tempting—but … "What's the catch?" She asked.

Rolega unhooked two daggers from her belt, and tossed one to each. "Well … we've only got room for one more, I'm afraid," she said gleefully. "So, we are going to hold _tryouts_. The last one standing will have repaid her debt to the Dread Father. And the loser … well, you're already dead," she smirked. "It shouldn't hurt _too_ much."

Carmilla was eyeing the razor-sharp dagger at her feet in a way that made Malys feel very uneasy.

"Oh—and just to make it interesting … "

Both vampires turned to see Rolega unhook a third dagger from a scabbard between her shoulder blades. This one was smaller than the ones she'd given to Herself and Carmilla, but looked far older—and strangely familiar, Malys thought; the dagger's scabbard carried the Daedric letter _oht_ on it—the traditional symbol of Oblivion.

Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized it. _That's—!_

Carmilla recognized it, too, and she licked her lips. "So the stories are true," she grinned. "Someone really was stupid enough to re-forge Mehrunes' Razor."

She laughed daringly at Rolega, and raised her staff directly at her. "Two Daedric artifacts, two cold-blooded killers," challenged the vampire. "Normally, I'd _love_ to watch this drama play out, but I'm afraid I'll have to pass on your offer. So, if you wouldn't mind putting away Dagon's little _toy_ … "

Carmilla's face split in an evil grin as she raised her staff—and then suddenly, she fell to the stone floor with a resounding _thud_. Malys didn't need to be a vampire to sense that Carmilla Anglinius was dead as a doornail.

But _was_ that really Carmilla? Even as Malys gawked at the dead body in shock, wondering when Rolega had had a chance to make her move, the body began to morph again, the female face shifting back into the foxlike expression of Venarus Vulpin. At the same time, a noise from behind Malys distracted her, and She wheeled around.

To Her shock, the dead body slumped over the spiked stone pillar was coming to life! _Is this necromancy?_ Malys wondered. But that was impossible—reanimating anyone or anything required a link between the caster and his or her target. If the necromancer was killed, so was his puppet—not to mention that his puppet would have been disintegrated into ash by the strength of the magic used to reanimate him. But _here_ —

Then many things happened in rapid succession.

The body slammed its open palm upon the rusty spike. Fresh blood flowed from the wound, and trickled down the pillar into the vast grooves spreading out from the center of the pavilion. There was a rumbling noise from below as the last of the blood vanished into the cracks, and ethereal purple flames leapt up in their place.

Then, Malys' confusion was augmented yet another notch as the dead body turned to Her and threw off its hood—revealing the pale face of Carmilla Anglinius, staff in hand and all. _How had she done that?_ She thought wildly. This was more than simple reanimation, of that She was certain—this was illusion magic on a whole other level as well, perhaps more advanced than even _Solyn's_ magic.

For her part, Rolega the Quiet was observing the entire affair with nary a trace of worry on her face. But she was slowly backing away a few steps, and Malys was sorely tempted to do the same thing. Whatever Carmilla had done, it was clear the assassin had not been prepared for it at all.

Then, all three women stumbled as the pavilion sank beneath their feet, and rearranged itself into a tiered arena. The pillar in the center remained where it was, revealing a larger, five-sided monolith beneath it, several feet taller than Malys was. In fact, she thought it looked wide enough to fit a person inside it.

Carmilla laughed as she got back to her feet. "I don't know what's buried here—and I don't know why the Volkihar would want it," she said triumphantly, "but I'd love to find out!"

And before either Malys or Rolega could stop her, Carmilla grasped the monolith, and roared in exertion as her vampiric strength ripped the solid stone in half—only the monolith _wasn't_ solid. It was hollow, much to everyone's astonishment. And it wasn't empty, either.

All three women stared as the occupant of the chamber stared back at them.

"Ugh … where is … who sent you here?"

* * *

_Druadach Redoubt_

At that moment in time, Cosette Ionsaithe was walking up one of the Reach's many blasted hillsides. The smell of burnt juniper and dried blood filled her nostrils, and the acrid stench of fresh taproot assaulted her. The source of this last smell—the remains of a spriggan, a forest spirit found throughout Tamriel, leered at her through unseeing eyes. Cosette was grateful that it couldn't make any sounds anymore, owing to the wooden spike that was impaled through its body from backside to mouth.

"Halt!"

Suddenly, the Breton found herself staring down two drawn bows. Each of the Forsworn was regarding her with a strange amount of suspicion. It took a moment for Cosette to understand why: she was still wearing her robes from Winterhold. So absorbed had the Culler been in her own thoughts that she had neglected to remove it over the course of her journey.

She held up a finger, high aloft so the guards could see, telling them to stay their bows for a moment longer. Then, in one flowing swoop, Cosette whipped off the novice robes she'd been wearing for the past few weeks. A sudden breeze caught them, and carried them into a lit sconce further up on the hillside. It didn't take long for the enchanted fabric to be set ablaze in the flames.

Cosette paid it only a few moments of attention, watching the last links of her life with the College consumed in fire. Then, it was back to business—she had come here for a reason. She displayed her body to the guards before her, clad in bits of fur, feather, bone, and leather that she'd been wearing under the robes now burning in the fire. All of it was arranged in a very revealing ensemble around her chest and groin: the traditional garb of the Forsworn.

The Breton, her true allegiance thus revealed, hollered out at the guards in the most no-nonsense tone she could muster. "Where is your King?"

Neither of them answered, or so much as moved a muscle. Their forked arrows did not move an inch, ready as ever to bury themselves dead center in Cosette's skull.

 _Good_ , she thought, concealing an approving smile. _They're learning_.

"I will see him!" she continued. "If he is here, tell him I have returned! He will know what it means."

The guards still did not move—but this time, Cosette saw them trade glances with one another, only for an instant. One of them—a woman in a mohawk, and the closer of the pair to her—nodded imperceptibly—still not daring to lower her bow even an inch—and the other Forsworn vanished from view inside a nearby cave, framed by the half-bleached ribcage, skull, and antlers of a great elk.

Some minutes later, the Forsworn returned, and gave a wordless shout. At this, Cosette's guard grunted, and lowered her bow. "It is good to see you again, Ionsaithe."

Cosette nodded curtly. "Likewise, Kaie."

She brushed off the other Forsworn who'd been guarding the entrance to their redoubt—he was not a familiar face, unlike Kaie, whom she had befriended in Cidhna Mine, and helped to escape along with all the others. "I can show myself in from here," she told him flatly. The Forsworn furrowed his brow, but nonetheless complied as Cosette and Kaie entered the cave beyond.

It took some time for Cosette's eyes to get adjusted to this place—of all the redoubts of the Forsworn, this was the only one she had never visited before. The Cullers, though they operated above and beyond the authority of the Forsworn, were nonetheless respectful of the personage who dwelled within the Forsworn base. Therefore, they had left them alone. But Cosette was vigilant; she knew that times could change—and that eventually, even Druadach would not be safe from the grasp of the Cullers, who sought to spill their own blood to make the Forsworn stronger.

She had to admit, however: if she was told today that Druadach would have to be cleansed, she wouldn't mind taking a good, long look at the place before carrying out her duty. It wasn't as vast as the redoubts of Hag Rock and Red Eagle—nor was it as well fortified as the strongholds of Deepwood Vale and the Broken Tower. But it was by far the most interesting to look at—and, perhaps more objectively, it was certainly one of the finest self-sustaining communities that the Forsworn had ever developed, able to withstand an extended siege from almost any adversary.

The farm to her right was growing almost every kind of food imaginable—mostly potatoes, but with a scattering of carrots and leeks. Cosette saw another familiar face from the mine tending to the plants—Uraccen, the first face she had gotten to know during her time in prison. He saw Cosette, and gave a small, half-hearted wave. The Breton felt a small twinge in her stomach—the look on his face suggested he'd just found out about what had happened to his daughter Ualie. Cosette knew there would have to be a talk about that—Ualie had been Forsworn as well, after all, and the circumstances of their encounter had not exactly given her much of a choice.

She crossed the crudely lashed bridge, hearing the sound of falling water and flopping fish in the stream underneath. The noise was almost soothing enough to make her forget why she had journeyed this way—almost. Another Forsworn was nearby, skinning several catches with his sword. Two others were across from him, busy carving up freshly slain livestock with stone knives. Cosette thought she might have recognized Duach among them; she waved hopefully, but the Forsworn was too absorbed in his work to return the gesture.

She ascended the steppes of the natural cave, passing a full dozen tents along the way. Cosette breathed in the air around her, and smiled. It felt _good_ to be back here, she thought, among people she could actually sympathize with. She would remember Vinye and Malys until the day she died—it was a pity, therefore, that she considered that day more important than any other in her life. She heaved a small sigh—hopefully, she thought, they would come to understand the meaning of her duty—

Cosette stopped. She had just crested the topmost steppe, where the largest tents rested. Milling about were more familiar faces from the mines; Braig was toiling away at a forge, surrounded by dozens of newly forged weapons. Odvan was hunched over a table laden with potion bottles both empty and full. Across from him was the briarheart who was in charge of this camp—in terms of raw power, anyway, Cosette amended. She knew who the most powerful person in this cave was.

And she could see him right now.

His back was turned to her at the moment, so Cosette could not get a good glimpse at him, but she knew it could be no other person. The giant Orc next to him—only the second-biggest Orc Cosette had ever encountered in her life—had been faithful towards no other person, to the point where no one dared argue that he was the only non-Breton inside the inner circle of the Forsworn.

The eyes of Borkul the Beast glinted in the firelight as they alighted on Cosette, who was now striding towards his charge with renewed confidence.

"You took your time," growled Borkul. The white skull painted over his face leered at the Breton beneath him. "He's been waiting for you to come back. What kept you?"

Cosette stared back at him, not daring to blink an eye. "My reasons were my own, _pig-face_ ," she shot back through clenched teeth, bared like fangs. "What I do, I do for the good of the Forsworn. That's all you need to know."

Borkul glared at her even harder for a few tense seconds before his scarred, horned face twisted into an ugly grin. "Ha!" he barked. "You haven't changed, have you, Ionsaithe?"

Behind him, the man he'd been standing next to stiffened slightly, as if he'd just recalled a long-forgotten memory.

Cosette saw this, and set her jaw. "I need to talk to Madanach," she said in an undertone, so that none of the other Forsworn could hear her. "It's very important."

Borkul tried to look curious. It wasn't a pretty sight. "Important," he repeated. "To him or to you?"

The Culler didn't answer to him. "Do I have to get you another shiv or not, Borkul?" she asked impatiently. "I'm getting through to him, one way or the other. And we both know I don't have a problem killing my own kind."

"You'd find me a lot tougher to stomach than that bastard Grisvar," Borkul sneered at her, but eventually he stood aside. "Fine, go on. But I'm keeping my eye on you."

"I feel safer already," Cosette smiled, just loud enough for Borkul to hear her. The Orc growled menacingly at her, but Cosette had seen the corners of his tusked mouth turn upwards for only a moment.

But now was not the time for jokes, she knew. She had come to Druadach for a reason, and that reason was steadily growing closer and closer to he—until, finally, Cosette reached the crude bench where he'd been sitting, and saw the face of the only hero she had ever looked up to in life.

Madanach looked completely at odds with the half-wasted man Cosette had met in prison. The King of Rags looked much older, it was true; his graying hair was longer and stringier than it had been in Cidhna Mine. But his body had not yet failed him. And then there were the eyes—the same eyes Cosette had seen inside the cramped cell of that prison.

They hadn't dimmed in the slightest, she knew. In fact, that resolute flame only looked like it had gotten _brighter_. The three decades he'd spent in that accursed hole under Markarth were nowhere to be found.

His mouth cracked in a smile. "So," he said. "You finally came back. I knew I'd see you again, one day."

He stood up, and suddenly the two were embracing like old friends. Cosette felt her jaw twinge—she hadn't remembered smiling so widely in so long, or even if she ever had smiled so widely in her life.

It was the first time she'd wanted to cry, she was so happy.

Five minutes later, the two were sitting on the bench, chatting away like old friends—Borkul's watchful eye entirely forgotten to Cosette.

Something on Madanach's armor caught the Culler's eye just then. "I like the new adornments," she saw, pointing out the two skulls dangling from the leather belt. Arcane sigils, known only to the briarhearts and hagravens who inscribed them, had been carved into the bone.

Madanach cackled. "Funny you should mention them," he said. "Got 'em both from these two boys who tried to get past the guards about a few weeks ago. Kaie still likes to tell me about their last moments in life."

Cosette felt a dull thud in the pit of her stomach as she realized the skulls were much smaller than an adult's.

"The real funny thing, she told me, is that they kept on saying you'd sent them here!" Madanach laughed, not noticing Cosette shrinking back in silence. "Now why would they be saying something like that, I wonder?"

Cosette had to bite her tongue. Madanach was a sharp man, she knew. Very little went on inside Forsworn territory that escaped his knowledge—the Breton was fully aware that her forays into Bthardamz and Arkngthamz ought to be known to him by now.

But that wasn't why she was here.

Madanach must have noticed something wrong, because the mirth on his weathered face had immediately left him. "What's troubling you?" he asked.

Cosette tried to force the fate of the two children out of her mind. She'd been rehearsing her answer ever since she'd set foot out of Winterhold. The trick was to keep it general enough to keep Madanach in the dark about who she really was—but not so much that he wouldn't be able to help her.

 _Only the essentials, nothing more_ , she reminded herself. And so, choosing her words carefully, she began to talk.

"Suppose you were the last of your family," she began, "the last of your clan. Months and years passed, and just when you'd put all hope out of your mind … you were wrong. Someone had survived. And you saw them with your own eyes. But an instant later … it all gets taken away from you. And you have to watch your family die in front of you. You have to watch their blood stain the stones of the earth, over and over again … until you're the only one left. Until your worst nightmare has become a reality." She looked at Madanach intently. "How angry would that make you feel?"

Madanach considered this. "I'd be angry, of course," he replied, his voice hardening in anger as he clenched his fist. "I'd want to take my revenge upon the Nord bastard who did it, too. I'd make an example of him, too—just like the example I made of Thonar. I'd show all of Skyrim the monster he was if I could."

Cosette decided not to tell him that Orchendor and Taron Dreth were not, in fact, Nords. Possibly Madanach had noticed her reluctant expression, because his angry expression immediately softened. "For what my word is worth, you have my condolences, Cosette," he said. "I have lost family myself—and the Ionsaithe clan was as much my family as it was yours."

Cosette bit her lip. No one in the Forsworn—save for those in the Cullers—had ever bothered to call Cosette by her first name, save for Madanach himself. Her heart began to race. Did this mean what she thought it meant?

He stood up. "And this news you bring me—if it is what I believe it to be—is very sad indeed. I will spread the word around our camps that the Ionsaithe line has met its end. We will send them off to the Old Gods in the most fitting way for that great clan."

He smiled. "The absolute purification of the Reach."

Cosette wanted to smile at the thought of this. "It doesn't stop there, though," she pressed on. "What if you never had a chance to take your revenge?" She thought of Taron Dreth, gasping his last breaths in the ashen grip of Dagoth Solyn. "What if the man who killed your family was himself killed … before you had a chance to kill him yourself?"

Madanach paused. "The Old Gods work in mysterious ways," he replied. "Whether it was the work of old age, or some disease, or even by the sword … yes. I would consider my thirst sated. The same debt need not be repeated twice, Cosette. It is enough."

The Culler seethed. "But it _isn't_ enough—not for me!" she hissed through her teeth. "I feel cheated, Madanach! I wanted to end the bloodshed myself—not have to rely on the wiles of the gods to solve my problems for me!"

She clenched her fists so hard she could feel the blood flowing from where her nails were digging into the flesh. "I still feel angry about this," she whispered. "But I don't know where to turn. I … I don't know who to feel angry at anymore."

She slumped back on the bench. Neither she nor Madanach spoke for a long time—she was too incensed to speak; he was too pensive.

Finally, Madanach spoke. Cosette was surprised to see a smile spreading across his face.

"Cosette Ionsaithe," he said, "that was _exactly_ what I wanted to hear from you. You feel angry. You feel _vengeful_. And if you can stay true to that, then it doesn't matter who you're angry at anymore."

The Breton was utterly confused. "What are you talking about?"

"As long as you can stay true to who you are," Madanach said again, "the Ionsaithe clan will never die again."

"What are you talking about?" Cosette said impatiently.

And Madanach smiled again. "I am the king of the Forsworn, Cosette—the most powerful man in all of the Reach. Or at least, that's what most people call me. For all my influence, I am nothing more than who I am: a King in Rags. I can direct the Forsworn wherever I please … but I am little more than a figurehead for the true power of the Forsworn—the spells and swords and axes and bows of our hands, and the resolve and fury of our minds."

Cosette did not speak. She could feel the revelation coming from Madanach, building up inside his throat, and so she waited with bated breath.

"The Forsworn are stronger than ever," said the King in Rags. "They have their King … and I believe it is time that they had a Queen."

His eyes alighted on Cosette upon the last word, and the Culler felt her breath leave her lungs at the ramifications of what he had just said. _A Queen … of the Forsworn?_

But before she could process this further, Madanach was walking away. "Why don't you rest, Cosette?" he asked, the deceptively genial smile back upon his face. "You've had a long journey—and if you want to be ready to fight for the Forsworn another day, you need as much strength as you can."

Cosette was about to protest, but a stiffness in her body had chosen that moment to flare up, and she felt her knees burning as she stood up after him. She bit her lip to stifle the cry of pain, and subconsciously she knew Madanach was right.

Mercifully, he had already picked out a tent below the topmost steppe, furthest from the constant bangs and clangs of the forge. Madanach bade her enter, and summoned a Forsworn to provide her with a bedroll and food. Once Cosette had been settled in, the two men took their leave.

Suddenly, however, the Forsworn Madanach had summoned turned to Cosette, just as he was about to leave her sight—and tipped her a long, slow nod. His eyes seemed to flicker toward the bedroll for only a moment.

And in that moment, Cosette caught the orange color of flames tattooed around the man's eyes and mouth.

She started to shout out as realization hit her, but the Forsworn had already turned away—and by the time Cosette made it to the edge of her tent to look around, he was nowhere to be seen.

Cosette stared at the exit of the cave, her mind swamped in shock and confusion. What were they doing here?

Then she remembered how the Culler had nodded towards her bedroll, and immediately Cosette set upon the sleeping bag, turning it inside out for anything that looked out of the ordinary.

It only took her a minute to find something of the sort: a rip on the inside of the bedroll, a gash that looked just wide enough to fit a—

Cosette's breath caught in her throat as her hands brushed across something unfamiliar.

A small, tightly sealed scroll had been stuffed into the tear, just far enough inside to where she could see the edges of the letter.

The Breton pulled out the parchment with trembling fingers—now that the scroll was bathed in the light of the cave, she could see a coat of orange dye lining the edges of the scroll. That was more than enough for her to know where this letter had come from.

Without a second thought, Cosette sliced open the sealed letter, her resolve suddenly dutiful and hard as steel. Her round eyes flitted over the parchment, narrowing into slits with each line she read. The orders were not signed—one of the Cullers' many methods of maintaining anonymity in the field. And even if they had used a name, it was most likely an alias—the Cullers took so many fake identities in their line of work that there were some among their number who had forgotten what their real name had ever been.

But the Cullers, ultimately, did not need names.

And although Cosette wished dearly to hold onto her name, her duty—and Madanach's intention—was clear as day.

_You will travel to Darklight Tower. Test the resolve of those who dwell within. Prove yourself worthy of his cause._

_This will be your final mission. Do not fail._

_For the Forsworn!_

* * *

_Haafingar_

"Halt!"

Outside a small, but forbidding-looking fortress, a woman bristled as the guard directly in front of her called out, but still she kept walking. She knew they would not bat an eye—as long as they didn't get _too_ close to her, at any rate.

The Thalmor soldier walked up to her, resplendent in his glass armor, and she stopped then. She was close enough to notice that the greenish malachite had been polished to a mirror's shine. "What business do you have with the Embassy, Justiciar?" he demanded.

She smiled. "I bring a message from Alinor," she said, making her voice as commanding, smug and supercilious as possible. "I am under orders to see it delivered to Herself _personally_." She reached into her ornately detailed navy blue robes, and produced a scroll sealed with a wax marking—one that the Thalmor immediately recognized.

"I see," he said, straightening up his form so that it looked like a ramrod had been shoved up his spine. He made no further apology, but for only an instant, he had slumped earlier—and that had been enough. "You will excuse my presumption, Justiciar. Between the Stormcloak insurgency and the Blades agent who _attempted_ to infiltrate this place, the First Emissary has been forced to make many changes in recent years. Most of our ground patrols have been recalled to the Embassy to bolster security should either the Stormcloaks or the Blades decide to try something _rash_." He toyed with his gleaming glass sword as he said this.

"Noted. As you were, soldier," she said dismissively. "Where is the Madam Emissary?"

"She is in her personal solar," said the soldier. "I will escort you to her. Our security protocol requires all visitors to be accompanied by an armed detail at all times."

The Justiciar raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" she asked, pretending to take offense to this—though in reality, it was something she had been expecting in light of those events.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the soldier without a hint of apology. "Even our own cannot be exempted from these measures." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "If I may, Justiciar," he whispered, "the Madam Emissary has grown very suspicious of this forsaken region of late. She has secluded herself in her solar for weeks at a time. Were it my place, I would say she is _afraid_."

Her lip twitched. "Unfortunately, _soldier_ ," she said, assuming a stony face, "it is _not_ your place."

The soldier slumped again. "Understood, ma'am."

"Good," she said, feeling some relish at watching the Altmer squirm in front of her. "Now, kindly direct me to the Madam Emissary, and you may return to your duties."

The guard saluted. "Ma'am. Follow me."

The two elves walked past the heavy gate that highlighted the thick fortifications of the Thalmor's embassy in Skyrim. The embassy itself was squat and square, and last night's snowfall gave it a very stark and foreboding look. She fought the urge to shiver at what must be going on within those walls—and wondered if the scream of the wind through her hood was really coming from the wind.

The Emissary's solar was located separately from the embassy proper, located right at the northern edge of the fortifications—below which was a cliff of considerable size, she knew. She stole a glimpse over the barricade, and noticed a single large tree standing at the snow-covered valley below, surrounded by sheer rock and gale-force gusts brought in from the Sea of Ghosts. _The last bastion_ , she thought apropos of nothing.

_This is the last holdout of the Thalmor in all of Skyrim._

Her escort saluted to a guard as they approached the door to the solar. This guard—a female—saluted back, and promptly fell in with them as they entered the solar. It was much warmer inside, and though she dared not let it show, she was grateful for the warmth of the roaring hearth.

The trio ascended a flight of stairs and turned down a short hallway. Several heavy oak doors lined the passage; the guard knocked on the nearest to their right with his armored fist.

"Who is it?" asked a refined but commanding voice from the other side. She tensed as it reached her ears—there was no mistaking the owner of that voice.

"A justiciar from Alinor, Madam Elenwen, bearing a message for Your eyes only," the guard replied.

There was a pause. "Enter."

The guard opened the door, and she strode in with the two soldiers flanking her.

Perhaps befitting of the frigid winds of northern Haafingar, the room beyond was surprisingly stark, not least because of the bare gray walls. There were few sconces to be seen; most of the illumination came from the giant windows behind the single desk, providing its sole occupant an unobstructed view of the Sea of Ghosts.

That person—presently occupied with quite a bit of paperwork, by the looks of her desk—now stood as the new arrivals strode in. The soldiers saluted her in response, and she did too.

"Thank you," Elenwen said. "You may return to your posts." The soldiers nodded once and marched out without a word. They closed the door behind them, and suddenly she felt a surge of anticipation as reality caught up with her, and she realized just who exactly she was alone with right now.

But she forced it out of her mind for right now, and produced the sealed scroll in her hand. "I was instructed to see this to you personally, Madam Emissary," she informed her, taking a few steps forward and positioning herself in the exact center of the square stone room. It took all her resolve to keep her voice from trembling and her body from shaking—she could not afford to be unprofessional right now.

Elenwen took the scroll, and slit the wax seal with a delicate finger as she sat down. She unfurled it, began to read it—and her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She watched in anticipation as Elenwen's lips silently repeated the four simple words that had been scrawled upon the parchment only last week—words that needed no eidetic memory to perfectly recall.

 _I know about Falinesti_.

Elenwen glared at her, her face the paragon of confusion. "What is the meaning of this, Justiciar?" she ordered—but she could hear the slight tremor in her voice, and the Emissary's sloped eyes had contracted with ill-concealed fear.

It was time, she knew. Trembling in anticipation—for a moment she'd prepared for ever since the massacre in Valenwood that had changed her life—she pulled off her hood, and revealed her short blonde hair, and her olive-colored skin: the exact same shade of olive as the woman sitting opposite her.

"Hello, Mother."

Vinye spoke without any trace of emotion, and her calm expression did not waver even as the lethal sparks danced on the fingers that clutched Kinsbane. There was a flash of blue-white light, a wet _crunching_ noise—and First Emissary Elenwen, Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim and widow of Justiciar Orinwe, crumpled in her chair, blood leaking from the wound dead center in her skull, where the dagger had struck her. She stared upwards at the ceiling, wearing an expression of shock and recognition on her face that Vinye would remember for the rest of her life.

And for the fifth and final time, the thin, long tubes of Septimus Signus' essence extractor sped for the dead elf, puncturing the flawless flesh with impunity and drinking Elenwen dry of her blood.

Vinye let out a sigh as she retrieved Kinsbane from her mother's body; just like that, the deed had been done—but she had no time to dwell on the magnitude of what had just happened.

Her act of matricide had not been a difficult task in and of itself. She had renounced her family a long time ago; they had been dead to her since the massacre in Valenwood. This had merely been the closure Vinye had been looking for. She had no other family now; no one else to know that she had ever existed.

She was finally _free_. Free to vanish into Skyrim, free to live the life she had wanted to live for so very long. Free to study, free to learn.

Free to pursue the _truth_.

But as the Altmer exhaled once more, allowing herself to come back to the real world, she knew that she wasn't out of the fire just yet. It had been even easier for her to procure the clothes on her back from that Justiciar than it had to extract Elenwen's whereabouts from him. And her eidetic memory had served her well once more in recreating the official seal of the Dominion on her letter, to mislead any prying eyes from believing her letter might be a forgery. All in all, breaking into the Embassy had been relatively easy.

Breaking _out_ of it, however, would be an entirely different matter—especially since the soldiers stationed right outside would have been robbed of their senses to not know what had happened.

As the extractor did its work, Vinye wasted no time in blasting a lightning bolt at the lock to the door behind her; the extreme heat it generated fused the mechanism. A yelp from outside told her that one of the soldiers must have tried to grasp the doorknob at the same moment, and had either been electrocuted or severely burnt in the process.

That wouldn't hold them back for long, she knew.

Once her mother's blood had been drained, and the tubules had retreated into her rucksack, Vinye quickly strode to one of the windows that overlooked the same cliff she had noticed on her way. She didn't need any tests to know the north wind was still blowing. With the glass destroyed, it whipped her hair every which way, and each gust felt like a knife stabbing into her flesh.

The Altmer heard lightning blasts coming from the other side, and the sound of splintering wood told her the soldiers were breaking through the door. She mentally steeled herself as she strode to the edge of the window—she knew she had only seconds. And if Vinye had miscalculated—even by a fraction of a moment—then she would die.

She replaced her hood over her head, and readied her hands right as the door was finally broken down by the efforts of the Thalmor troops. The two soldiers burst in, bound swords raised and spells ablaze as they took in the scene of the room. Then they spotted Vinye—and their staunch expressions turned murderous in the blink of an eye.

_"Traitor!" "Kill her!"_

But Vinye did not care to hear them. And as the soldiers opened fire on her, several things happened at once.

She threw up a ward right as the first fireball hit, scattering glass and debris all over, and sending her sailing out of the broken window—

—and right over the cliff.

 _Push_ , she immediately thought, her mind flashing back once more to her lessons in Alinor; she'd used the ward to catch the momentum of the fiery missile, giving her the right amount of horizontal velocity. For a brief moment, she smelled the odor of chaurus eggs as the memory passed though her mind, and then it was gone—replaced by the harsh, cold reality of northern Haafingar.

As the sheer, jagged rocks loomed below, the Altmer twisted around in midair, and spread out her stolen Justiciar's robe as far out as it could go, holding the hems at arm's length either side like they were bird's wings. The north wind buffeted her, and her eyes stung, but still she held on to the edges of the cloak for dear life as she plummeted ten more feet—twenty, thirty—

_Pull—_

And then she felt a blast of wind from _below_ her; the north wind from the sea had been caught by the rocks, and had been deflected _upward_ towards her falling body. She felt a sensation like a hammer crashing into her chest as the gusts hit her, propelling her slender body upwards, and she began angling her airborne form towards her destination.

Once the top third of the lone tree below the cliffs was right in front of her, Vinye counted under her breath—and played her last card. With both hands this time, she threw up a ward, releasing her hold on the robe. She tucked her legs as closely to her chest as she could, and plummeted like a stone—

—straight into the tree trunk. The coniferous branches between it and her, combined with her double-handed ward, were just enough to arrest the momentum of her controlled crash landing. Her left side was the first part of her body to hit the toughened wood, and she cried out in pain with the force of the impact. She heard a number of resounding _cracks_ , and yet more pain in her abdomen told her that not all of those _cracks_ belonged to the branches. Thankfully, however, Vinye had angled her body just so that none of her vital organs were in serious trouble; any damage could be healed later on.

There were no signs that the Thalmor knew she was still alive—there was no continued rain of magefire, or shouts on the wind commanding their subordinates to search the premises. Perhaps they believed that the winds had dashed her on the rocks, killing her instantly.

She smirked, ignoring the pain as she resealed her wounds. _How wrong they were_.

Vinye stayed there for a long time, finally letting the implications of her actions crash around her. Her own mother—the sole witness besides herself to the atrocities her father had committed in Falinesti those years ago—was finally dead, and her fresh blood now flowed in the machine that lay nestled inside her knapsack, intermingling with the blood of the unknown Bosmer and Falmer, and of Ugluk gro-Lugburz and Taron Dreth.

_Seek you out the forest and the snow; sift you through the dung and the ash._

_Then at the last, return you to your family, and we shall sing the song of the deep ones together …_

Finally, Septimus' riddle had been answered, and she was ready to deliver the final piece of the old hermit's mysterious experiment.

At long last, Vinye began to descend from the treetop, and down the cliffs to the shoreline. From there, she would head east along the northern coast to Septimus' hideout.

As she began the long journey, she noticed that she no longer felt cold—the shriek of the wind was merely a whisper now, and the freezing knife-edge of each gust was now nothing more than a not-so-gentle nudge on her robes. Indeed, warmth was spreading throughout her body—a tremble of anticipation for the future that soothed her more than the hearth inside Elenwen's solar.

Though it had not gone according to plan, Vinye had helped to make perhaps the most astounding discovery of the last three eras—she would not begrudge Malys and Cosette for assisting her in getting this far. But the mystery of the Dwemer was not yet complete, she knew. There was still one last task—one last artifact.

And yet, it felt as though her quest for the truth had only just begun …

* * *

_Winterhold_

The wind from the northern seas howled in Grimnir's quarters above the College, and the echoes howled in his ears as the Arch-Mage bent over his desk. His single eye—invisible behind his iron mask that had once belonged to Hevnoraak, whose enchantments kept him hale and hearty even after the injuries he had suffered from his battle with the necromancer M'Alga—looked at the dying candle on his desk, spattering wax over the sheaves of parchment clustered before him.

How long he had been sitting there, doing nothing, Grimnir did not know. But Varulf's visit to the College during the funeral, and what the High King had had to say to him, had vexed him greatly.

_Why do you hide and cower from the future, Dragonborn?!_

And at first, Grimnir might have rebuffed him. But ever since then, he had been dwelling on his words. He was a Nord, no less so than Varulf, but where the High King was still young and in his prime, Grimnir was old. He had the soul of a dragon, but he still had the body of a mere man—and that body had been lingering in the twilight for longer than it had any business to be.

Yet Varulf's stubbornness was to be admired, Grimnir thought. Here was a man who still believed in heroes and legends—and believed that they still had a part to play in this changing world.

Was it possible that he was still right?

Eventually, Grimnir put down his quill, which had been sitting unattended in his hand for what must have been several hours, and strode out of his quarters. The groan of the windows against the wind turned into a rumble as he ascended a staircase to the top of the College—an empty space, perfect for practicing all manner of magic.

He did not feel the slightest bit cold as he entered this place; the high winds battered his robe, but a simple application of J'zargo's sleight-of-hand replaced Hevnoraak's iron mask with that of another dragon priest of Alduin—Otar the Mad, who he had slain in the necropolis of Ragnvald. The enchantment woven into the malachite protected him from the elements, both magickal and natural.

But it did not protect from the emotional—for the chill spreading over Grimnir's skin had nothing to do with the extreme cold of Winterhold. The Arch-Mage had never thought himself a seer of the future, but nevertheless, a part of him could not help but think that the world around him might need him one more time.

The rumbling sound distracted his thoughts again, and Grimnir turned his gaze northward, staring out to sea. The clouds were growing dark over there, he noticed, and growing darker and larger—and closer.

A storm was coming.


End file.
